An Unexpected Fate
by chelsie fan
Summary: Sometimes, fate deals an unfortunate hand, and all seems lost. But even the darkest cloud has a silver lining.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N For Week 4 of S8, I offer you the beginning of a new multichapter story. The prompt for the story comes from royal-lover, who posted it on tumblr months ago. I found it compelling (I've been thinking about it ever since I came across it), and I asked if I might explore the idea. Royal-lover kindly agreed. I'm putting the prompt in an author's note at the end of this chapter so as not to spoil anything. Just so you're aware, there's some mild angst at the beginning, but it's nothing terrible. I can promise you that things will get brighter soon enough and that the tale will end happily.**

 _December 24, 1924_

On Christmas Eve, after the party, the butler and housekeeper sat in the butler's pantry, exchanging gifts after everyone else in the house had gone to bed.

"Mr. Carson, I'm very appreciative. _Really_. But I can't accept," said Mrs. Hughes.

"Why not?" Mr. Carson wondered.

"It's far too generous," she explained. "We've always exchanged small tokens for Christmas, but – _this_!" She waved the paper and envelope in the air between them. "This is too much!"

"Nonsense, Mrs. Hughes," he argued. "We _are_ _friends_ , are we not? Good friends? And when one friend finds himself with the means to do something kind for the other, should he not do it for her? Please, Mrs. Hughes. Allow me to help you in this way."

"But I've given you a set of handkerchiefs!"

"A _lovely_ set of handkerchiefs on which you have elegantly, _painstakingly_ embroidered my initials and some other details and flourishes. A _precious_ set of handkerchiefs whose value goes beyond any monetary worth. A most _thoughtful_ gift from a cherished friend. A gift that I shall treasure all my days."

Mrs. Hughes blushed and looked away. "I'm pleased that you think so highly of them … and of me. But still … "

"'But still' _nothing_! I insist that you allow me to do this for you, and if you try to refuse, I shall make the arrangements myself. I shall purchase your train ticket and reserve a room for you at a suitable inn, and then you shall have no choice in the matter."

"Ridiculous man!" said Mrs. Hughes, shaking her head; but grateful tears sparkled in her eyes, and a fond smile adorned her lips.

"Right, then. It's settled," declared Mr. Carson with a satisfied grin.

"As I've been left with no say in the matter, I suppose it _is_ settled!" she chuckled. "Very well."

"Excellent," he said with a nod and a smile.

The clock chimed the hour, as if to remind them how late it was.

"That's our cue, I believe. It's late. We should go up," suggested Mr. Carson.

"Yes, it's well past time," Mrs. Hughes agreed.

"You go on ahead," he offered. "I'll just close up down here before I go."

She nodded. "All right, then."

They stood, Mr. Hughes holding her note and Mr. Carson carrying the box with his new handkerchiefs. They remained facing each other for a moment before Mrs. Hughes spoke.

"Mr. Carson, before we say good night, I mean to say … That is, I want you to know … " She stopped speaking, looked down, and took a deep breath. Then she took a step forward, looked up at him with a smile, rested her free hand on his chest, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. You're a very dear man."

For a moment, Mr. Carson was so moved that couldn't form an appropriate response. But then he managed to collect his wits enough to whisper, "Thank _you_. And I hope you know that you're very dear to me, as well. More than you know." He smiled and squeezed her hand. They gazed at each other silently for a few seconds before she turned and left.

After putting things in order downstairs, then going up to his room and getting ready for bed, Mr. Carson sat in his bedroom, looking at the ring, lamenting the tragedy of it all. It had taken him twenty years to realize how much he loved Mrs. Hughes, five more to convince himself that he could and _should_ declare his love to her, another three to determine roughly how to proceed, and a further two to gather enough courage to act. But after thirty long years, things had finally been falling into place, and everything had been going so well. First, he'd proposed his "business venture" with the house, and Mrs. Hughes had seemed happy about the prospect. Then, even though she'd told him about her sister and admitted she couldn't go in on the project with him, she'd seemed sad about it … even told him she wished she could have … called it "our little dream." Her frank confession and heart-wrenching vulnerability had made him brave: he'd bought the house anyway and registered it in both of their names. He'd decided to propose and had even bought a simple ring to offer her. But fate had had other plans. As Christmas approached, he'd noticed the first tremors. At first, he'd tried to persuade himself he'd imagined the episodes, but soon he could no longer deny that they were, in fact, real. Then, he'd tried to attribute the instances to nerves or stress, but that ascription hadn't been very convincing. Finally, he'd been forced to accept the certainty that he would be plagued for the rest of his life with the same palsy that had afflicted his father and grandfather, and he'd resigned himself to the fact that he could never profess his love or marry Mrs. Hughes. _He_ had hoped to take care of _her_ , but if they were to marry, she would find herself caring for a helpless invalid, a useless husband. He would never burden her in such a way.

And so on Christmas Eve, instead telling Mrs. Hughes of her stake in the house and proposing marriage, as he'd previously hoped and planned, he'd given her a sort of promissory note: a letter stating that he'd like to buy her a train ticket to visit her sister at a future time of her choosing and, further, that he'd like to give her some money towards her lodging and meals during her visit. She'd tried to refuse, but he'd been insistent, and she'd eventually relented, agreeing that when she could find a convenient time to visit, she would allow him to pay for her train fare and accommodations.

It wasn't as much as he wished he could do for her, but it was the most he could offer her under the circumstances. He intended to figure out a way to use the income and the equity from the house to help her in whatever way he could. She probably wouldn't allow him to give her any money towards her sister's care, but he would think of _something_ , some way to ease her burden. When Mrs. Hughes had kissed his cheek earlier, Mr. Carson had been sorely tempted to take her in his arms and declare his love. He resisted, though, because it wouldn't have been fair to her – not when he had nothing to offer her except financial security. Still, if money were all he had to offer, he could do that without burdening her. He had only to persuade her to allow him to do so. She was a proud, independent woman, he knew, but he would find a way. His love, given his condition, might be a burden to her, but his money would not.

Mr. Carson once more examined the ring in his trembling hands. He was well aware that life was not fair. He'd long ago stopped expecting any justice in matters of fate. Mr. Carson believed in a benevolent God, but he also knew that for reasons beyond his own understanding, that same God sometimes allowed people to experience heartbreak. Still, it seemed an exceptionally cruel trick that such happiness should be snatched from his grasp just as it fell nearly within his reach. He exhaled heavily and wiped a single tear from his eye. Then he placed the ring back in its box and tucked the box away in the drawer in his night table. He took one of his new handkerchiefs in his hand and turned off his bedside lamp. The handkerchief, pressed to his face, with Mrs. Hughes's scent lingering on it, was both a comfort and a sorrow. And with a troubled heart, Mr. Carson lay down to face a night of fitful slumber.

 **A/N The prompt was as follows:**

 **"** _ **Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are not married. Mr. Carson retires because of the tremors in his hands, and he sees his plan to marry Mrs. Hughes going away. He doesn't want to be a burden to her. But she doesn't give up on him so easily. Every night, she visits him in his cottage. What happens next?"**_

 **Many thanks to royal-lover for the excellent idea and for allowing me to expand on it.**

 **I don't expect this story to be a 30-chapter monster, but I'm guessing it will take maybe 8?, 10?, 12? chapters to resolve things satisfactorily. If all goes well, I'll update every Sunday for the rest of S8 and then whenever I can after that.**

 **And thanks to my youngest daughter, my faithful proofreader, who looked over this for me.**

 **Oh, and thank you to everyone who read "More Than Words." Special shout out to guest reviewers, whom I can't thank personally.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thank you so much for the wonderful response to the first chapter! You're an amazingly supportive group of people, and I'm grateful for your encouragement.**

 **Here's Chapter 2: my offering for Week 5 of S8.**

 _January 1925_

Mr. Carson was perusing his ledger when Mrs. Hughes entered his pantry and closed the door. He made to stand, as a matter of courtesy, as was his custom, but she waved him off, and so he remained seated while she stood near his desk.

"When were you going to tell me?" she asked gently.

"What about?" he asked.

"The shaking." She'd first noticed it a few weeks prior, and she'd been hoping he'd say something to her about it, but he hadn't. And now it was getting worse.

He clasped his hands together protectively, guiltily. "What shaking?"

"I am your _friend_. I _care for_ you. Your secrets are safe with me." She hoped to impress upon him that she wanted to help him, that he could confide in her.

But he persisted in his denial. "What shaking?"

She didn't respond, only looked at him pointedly, knowingly.

"Perhaps I'm just overworked and overtired," he attempted feebly.

"Mr. Carson, please. It's more than that. You should know that you could never have hidden it from me. There was never any hope of _that_."

He sighed, defeated. "I should have known better than to even _try_." He rose from his chair behind his desk and motioned towards his two armchairs, where they both sat.

She waited for him to speak, but he simply sat staring at his clasped hands in his lap.

"Mr. Carson?" prompted Mrs. Hughes.

He looked up at her and began his disclosure, rubbing one hand over the other as he spoke. "My father had it. And my grandfather. And it finished the careers of both of them. I always hoped it'd pass me by, but no such luck. It's not really a proper condition. It doesn't even have a name. Granddad called it 'the palsy,' but these days I just have … 'shaky hands.' There is no treatment; there's no cure. The plain truth is … I'm done for. I'm worse than useless. Look at that." He held out a trembling hand, the right one, which was worse than the other.

In truth, she was greatly relieved to know that the shaking was _not_ an indication of any of the other, _much worse_ possibilities she'd feared, but it still broke her heart to see him brought so low. She slid forward in her chair, took his quivering hand tenderly between both of her own, and caressed it softly. When she saw the tears looming in his eyes, her own eyes became damp. "You are _not_ 'done for' … or … 'useless,'" she assured him quietly.

"I'll have to retire soon," he said, looking down at their hands. "I won't be able to hide it for much longer, and it's getting worse. It's only a matter of time before I spill soup in her ladyship's lap … or … drop a snifter full of brandy on his lordship's foot."

"But Mr. Carson … " said Mrs. Hughes. "Couldn't you stay on in a more advisory capacity? You can let Mr. Barrow take over the more demanding duties, and then you can supervise and make sure everything is up to snuff."

"He's to do all the work, yet I'm to be in charge? I doubt Mr. Barrow would agree to that. And I wouldn't blame him."

"No. I suppose you're right," she conceded sadly.

"You needn't pity me, Mrs. Hughes," he told her. His voice was sad, but it was not bitter. He seemed resigned. "I know very well that life is not always fair … and … fate is not always kind. I've had a good run of it, better that most. It's not what I'd hoped for. I do wish things had turned out differently. But I suppose no man can have everything he wants."

Mr. Carson's hand had calmed under her soothing attentions, and now she rested her hands on top of his in his lap. She tried to boost his defeated spirits. "Come, now, Mr. Carson! Things are not as dark as they may seem!"

"I never imagined living out my later years in a cottage all by myself," he said simply.

"But you've considered retirement. We've spoken about it. It may be happening sooner than you'd expected, but if you didn't intend to spend your remaining days in your own cottage, then what _did_ you imagine doing in retirement?" She dared not voice the future _she_ 'd imagined for him – for _them_ , together: the future she'd foolishly thought might be possible when he first proposed his "business venture" idea, before she had to pull out of the deal.

"Oh, never mind," he sighed. "It doesn't matter now."

"What about your house? The one on Brouncker Road, I mean. Perhaps you could live in your house instead of a cottage," she suggested. "It would be one less room to let out, but at least you wouldn't be alone."

"I'm not sure living among strangers who come and go would be preferable to living alone."

"Perhaps not," she allowed.

"I suppose I've got some time to get used to the idea. I'm not ready to make any sort of announcement just yet, and I'm certainly in no hurry to leave. While I don't wish to risk embarrassing the family, I do think I can carry on for a _little_ while longer."

"I daresay you can. I doubt anyone but me has noticed. And that's only because I … " She stopped, afraid to say too much. "Well, it's my job to look after you," she finished, smiling. Their hands were still clasped together, hers on top, and she patted his hand with one of her own.

Finally, he brightened a bit, and he raised one eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that 'looking after the butler' is expressly stipulated among the duties listed in the housekeeper's employment contract."

"It wasn't, originally. Not when I signed it, anyhow. But it is now. I wrote it in later, after we became friends."

He smiled at that, her teasing having lifted his spirits. "I do appreciate that, Mrs. Hughes. And I hope I've looked after you, too, in some small way. Only now I find myself quite helpless to keep up my end of the bargain. What can I offer you now, in my condition?"

"Well, for a start, I have a promissory note from you that offers quite a generous lot, in fact! And even without that, your friendship would be quite enough for me, thank you," she assured him cheerfully.

"Then, as my friend, will you keep my secret for a little while longer – keep it between us two, for now? Until I'm ready to tell the family and staff?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson. As I said, your secrets are safe with me. You know I'll do anything you ask."

"Then, you'll visit me in my cottage when you can? So that I don't get too lonely?" He looked at her hopefully, needily. "I know as well as anyone how busy you are running this house, but … I do hope you'll be able to spare me an hour or two, here or there."

"Of course I will! I'll visit as often as I possibly can. And I hope you'll feel welcome to come back here and pay us a call any time you like. You and I are friends. It'll take more than your retirement to separate us." Her spoken words made her sound braver than she felt in her heart; in actuality, she feared his leaving might be more than she could bear. Though they'd _spoken_ of retirement, she selfishly hoped that he never would _actually_ retire. _She_ couldn't retire, and the most she could hope for would be that they might live out their remaining days working side by side. Apparently, that was not to be.

They both looked down at their joined hands, then back up into each other's eyes. "It'll be a different life," said Mr. Carson. He spoke evenly, but Mrs. Hughes could tell his equanimity came with tremendous effort.

"But you can make a go of it, Mr. Carson. And I mean to help you." She smiled encouragingly, as much for her own sake as his, and he smiled back. She squeezed his hands and released them, stood, and left him to get on with his day while she got on with hers.

Later that night, Mrs. Hughes lay in her bed. She'd tried to keep busy all day to avoid thinking about her talk with Mr. Carson, but now, in the quiet of her room, her thoughts could not be elsewhere. As much sorrow as she felt for her own sake at the thought of Mr. Carson's leaving, she felt much more regret for his sake. Downton had been his whole life since he was a young lad. It was in his blood. Charles Carson _was_ the butler of Downton Abbey, and the butler of Downton Abbey _was_ Charles Carson. Mr. Carson could be nothing else, and the butler of Downton Abbey could be none other. He embodied the position, and the position defined him. Retirement would be devastating to him. And to make matters worse, it was _unwilling_ retirement, thrust upon him by an unfortunate twist of fate. Mr. Carson was a proud man, and to be incapacitated would take a toll on him emotionally, not to mention the physical, practical difficulties he would face. Mrs. Hughes wanted nothing more than to make it all better for him, to impart some magic cure. But she could not. The only course left open to her was to try to keep his spirits up and to aid him by whatever practical means she might. She fully anticipated that his pride might compel him to resist any assistance she might offer, but her persistence would prevail. It always did.

Earlier, Mr. Carson had said that this unhappy situation wasn't as he'd hoped it would be. It wasn't what Mrs. Hughes had imagined, either. But she'd learned a long time ago that lament was rarely helpful. The wisest course of action was usually to make the best of circumstances that couldn't be changed, and she meant to do just that.

She rolled over, switched on the lamp on her night table, and pulled from the drawer Mr. Carson's note, the one in which he offered to underwrite her visit to Becky. This gave her an idea, and she rose from her bed and went to her side table. She turned on another lamp, withdrew a sheet of paper and a pen, and began to write:

 _Dear Mr. Carson,_

 _At Christmastime, you gave me note in which you kindly offered me your financial assistance. You reminded me that we are friends, and you said that when one friend finds himself with the means to help the other, he should do so. Well, I am not in a position to offer you monetary aid, nor do I believe you require such a thing. I can, however, offer you practical assistance, for_ _this_ _friend finds herself with two perfectly steady hands, both of which she is happy to place at the disposal of the other friend when his hands struggle to perform necessary tasks. Some time ago, when we were at the seaside, I offered you my hand to steady you. I fear the rocky ground you must now traverse and the choppy waters you must now navigate will be more uncertain than the sand and surf we braved that day, but in light of that, I will double my offer: you may have the use of_ _both_ _of my hands whenever the need arises._

 _When we spoke earlier, you asked me to keep your confidence, and you asked me to visit you in your cottage when the time comes. You know that I shall be happy to do both, but I hope to do more. If there are certain physical tasks that you find challenging, I shall help. Should you desire companionship, conversation, and encouragement, I shall provide those also. I intend to do whatever is required to assure that your needs are met and that you remain in good spirits. You may be casting off, Mr. Carson, but you'll not be rid of me that easily. I fully expect that I shall make a nuisance of myself and there shall come a time when you shall try to turn me out of your cottage, but I'll not be deterred._

 _I know that the onset of this condition is a severe blow to you. Know that you needn't bear it alone. Remember what I said earlier: I am your friend, and I care for you. Hardships are easier to bear with a friend at one's side, and this note serves as my promise to you that I shall be at your side when you need me._

 _You once told me that you knew I would never abandon you. I hope you still believe the truth of that statement now. If you do not, you shall soon see ample proof._

 _Your unwavering friend,_

 _E.M. Hughes_

Mrs. Hughes finished writing and set down her pen. She folded the paper, slid it into an envelope, and sealed the flap, planning to give the note to Mr. Carson the next morning with the hope that it might provide some reassurance. Then she turned out the lights, got back in bed, and sent up a fervent prayer for her friend's well-being.

 **A/N Thank you again to royal-lover on tumblr for the prompt idea!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thank you for the encouraging reviews for the first two chapters. Since I can't thank my guest reviewers individually and personally, via PM, I'll express my gratitude here: please know that I appreciate your kind words. Here's Chapter 3, my late entry for Week 6 of S8.**

 _March 1925_

The past several weeks had been the most difficult time of Mr. Carson's life, and he had no doubt the next few would be even more miserable. After his conversation with Mrs. Hughes in which he'd told her about his condition, he'd been able to muddle through a few more weeks, but he'd been able to carry on as long as he had _only_ because of her support – both moral and practical. She'd covertly helped him to decant the wine each afternoon; she'd written out purchase orders and signed invoices when his hands were especially shaky; she'd come up with convenient excuses to be certain that Andrew and Mr. Molesley polished the silver and that Mr. Barrow served the tea; and she'd tried to lift his spirits during their nightly tête-à-têtes. And of course, the touching note she'd written him, which he kept in his night table drawer and re-read nightly, was a source of some solace, too. But eventually, one evening after he sloshed some wine on the table while serving the dowager, he'd spoken to his lordship and tendered his resignation. Lord Grantham had been kind and supportive, saying that surely they could come to some satisfactory arrangement that wouldn't involve retirement. Mr. Carson, however, had been adamant that since he could no longer perform his duties to the high standards that Downton Abbey and the Crawleys deserved, he would surrender his post to someone more capable. After some deliberation, it had been decided that after a month's transition period in which Mr. Carson would ensure that Mr. Barrow was up to the challenge, the under butler would assume command. Mr. Carson would move to a nearby cottage – the nicest one available, chosen by Lady Mary herself – and might occasionally be called upon for consultation.

After the month of training and transition had expired, Mr. Carson stood, late in the evening, looking around his pantry one last time. He'd packed up all his personal effects, and Mr. Barrow had had the courtesy and sensitivity not to move anything of his own into the room yet, so the space looked rather barren.

"Mr. Carson?" came Mrs. Hughes's quiet voice from the open doorway.

He turned to look at her.

"They've all gone up," she told him. "I'll say good night now, too. I'm sure you'll want a few moments to yourself."

"No. Stay, please, if you don't mind," he pleaded. "I'm anticipating _plenty_ of time to myself from now on, and I would very much appreciate your company right now … that is, if you're agreeable."

"Of course, Mr. Carson."

He motioned towards his two chairs, and they sat down facing each other, as they had so many times before.

"It was a lovely party tonight," remarked Mrs. Hughes.

"It was very kind of everyone, though I wish they hadn't made such a fuss," Mr. Carson said.

"Mr. Carson, you've been here for fifty years!" she pointed out. "That's longer than anyone except the dowager and Lord Grantham. They couldn't very well let you leave without proper recognition."

"But still, Mrs. Hughes … " Mr. Carson had been touched by the gesture when the family and staff gathered in the servants' hall for a sending-off party to bid him farewell, but he hadn't been comfortable with all the attention. He'd spent his entire career trying to blend in to the background, to be inconspicuous. Having a party in his honor had felt decidedly inappropriate.

They sat in silence for a moment, both deep in thought. Mr. Carson shifted in his chair. "I don't think I'm cut out for a solitary life," he confessed, changing the subject.

"Who says your life will be solitary? You'll come back here to visit us, and I'll call on you as often as I possibly can. I'm sure Mrs. Patmore will stop by, too. Even Lady Mary and his lordship will grace your doorstep, I'd wager."

"Hmph. I'm sure they've both got better things to do," he scoffed half-heartedly.

"Mark my words, Mr. Carson. They'll both appear at your door within the first week. Let's not pretend; we both know how fond of you they are. And I'll give it two weeks before the dowager pays her first call."

"Oh, come, now, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Carson was embarrassed, but his heart had warmed at the thought that he might be regarded so highly, and he smiled in spite of himself.

"And now you'll have time to become more involved in village life: the church, the library, perhaps some committee or other."

"Perhaps," he said, not convinced that any of those things would take the place of everything – and every _one_ – he was leaving behind. He slid forward in his chair, moving closer to Mrs. Hughes. "Mrs. Hughes, may I speak freely?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson! We're friends. _Very dear_ friends. Don't we always speak our minds to each other?"

"Certainly we do," said Mr. Carson. "And that's precisely what I wish to address."

"I don't understand," replied Mrs. Hughes, her confusion evident in her expression.

Ever so slowly, his own hand trembling, he reached to take hers. He gazed at her, trying to hold back tears. "I shall miss you, Mrs. Hughes. _Very much_. Over the years, we've become close. We've sat and talked about trivial matters and important ones. I daresay you know me better than anyone, and as I've come to know you, too, I've grown fond of you. Quite fond, indeed. There's no one in the world who means more to me. And … I don't know how I'll manage if I can't sit down for a cup of tea with you in the afternoon and tell you my troubles … if I can't drink a glass of sherry with you in the evening and talk about my day. Who will listen to my grumbling about the all changes I read about in the morning papers?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood and managing a small smile.

She matched his teasing tone. "I'm sure the birds on your windowsill will prove more sympathetic to your grumbling than I've ever been."

"Well, if you've not been _sympathetic_ , exactly, then you've at least _tolerated_ me."

"Of course I have, Mr. Carson. I've ' _tolerated_ ' you because I'm quite partial to you, too," she told him. "But I'll not miss you, and I'll not allow you to miss me, either." He looked befuddled at that, and she chuckled at his expression. "Come with me, please." She patted his hand, rose, and led him into her sitting room.

While Mr. Carson sat waiting at her little table, Mrs. Hughes took a box from her shelf and then placed it on the table in front of him.

"I was going to wait until tomorrow, but now seems a good time. Go on. Open it," she urged him.

He lifted the lid and found the box partitioned into quarters, each section containing a sturdy porcelain cup and saucer. His hands shaking only slightly, he withdrew a cup and its saucer and examined them. Then he set them down on the table, managing to place the cup inside the saucer's deep well.

"A _trembleuse_ *," he observed.

"Yes, four of them, in fact," she pointed out. "Two of them will stay here, in my sitting room, and we'll use them when you come back to visit. You'll take the other two with you to your cottage, and we'll use those when I call on you for tea."

"But _you_ don't need a special cup. _Your_ hands are steady as anything."

"Need I remind you again that we are friends? Your burdens are my burdens, and we'll bear them together. If we're united in a common purpose, then our cups should match, too. A show of solidarity, so to speak."

He was quite overcome by her gesture and her words. "Mrs. Hughes … I … I don't know what to say."

"You needn't say _anything_ , Mr. Carson. These cups are a gift, a promise, and an obligation," she explained. "They're my retirement gift to you; they're a symbol of my promise to visit you in your cottage as often as I can; and they're a reminder of your obligation to return here as often as possible. I promise to keep up my end of the bargain, and I'll hold you to yours."

Mr. Carson was grateful for Mrs. Hughes's sensitivity. It was obvious that he needed a moment to compose himself, and so she tactfully took two of the cups and saucers and went to place them on her shelf. "Now, you'd better be a frequent guest. I don't expect these to collect any dust!" she admonished playfully over her shoulder as she arranged them.

By the time she returned to the table, he'd stood.

"It's getting late," she said. "I should go up now. I'll leave you in peace to have a last look around." She pointed to the box with the two remaining cups. "You can leave these here for now. We'll take them with us tomorrow when we go."

"' _We_ '? ' _Us_ '?" he wondered aloud.

"Well, you didn't think I'd send you off on your own, did you? I'm going with you to get you settled. I'll not stay long, but I'll worry unless I see for myself that you're all right." But suddenly, she seemed uncertain. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I didn't," she added softly.

Gratitude swelled in his heart for the dear woman before him. He clasped her hands in his own, which did now tremble quite a bit.

"Assuming you can spare the time, I would be most grateful if you would accompany me," he assured her, and he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.

"Then, it's settled. I'll see you in the morning," said Mrs. Hughes.

And with that, she slipped her hands from his and left him to himself. He made one, last, slow circuit of the downstairs and the main floor of the house, surveying the domain he would surrender in the morning. Then he went up to bed and spent his last night in the room that had been his for decades.

In the morning, after breakfast, two hall boys delivered the last of Mr. Carson's possessions to his cottage. The retiring butler was subjected to a round of tearful goodbyes and well wishes from both family and staff. He managed to maintain his composure throughout, but after Lady Mary solemnly kissed his cheek, his tenuous grasp on his dignity was very much in peril. Mercifully, Mrs. Hughes intervened with a crisp, "Come along, now, Mr. Carson. We should be off."

The two donned coats and hats and made their way out the back door. Though his lordship had offered to place the motor at Mr. Carson's disposal and have Mr. Stark drive him, Mr. Carson preferred to walk. Lady Mary had chosen his new cottage not only for its superior amenities but also for its proximity to the abbey; it was no more than a ten-minute walk at a leisurely pace.

Once outside the gate to the servants' courtyard, Mr. Carson offered Mrs. Hughes his arm. The uneven path and occasional ruts provided a convenient reason, but the truth was that he simply needed to feel her touch. Wordlessly, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he felt better immediately. They walked to the cottage slowly, silently. Once there, Mr. Carson removed a key from his coat pocket, but his trembling hand fumbled, and Mrs. Hughes placed her own hand over his to help guide the key to the lock. He could have managed on his own, eventually, but he certainly didn't object to the feel of her warm, soft skin on his. They turned the key together, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind them. In the entryway, they found the box and valise that the hall boys had delivered earlier. While Mr. Carson hung their coats and took his valise to his bedroom, Mrs. Hughes unpacked the box and made some tea. A short time later, they sat together on the sofa in Mr. Carson's parlor and drank their tea, christening their _trembleuse_ cups.

Mr. Carson smiled sadly. "I never imagined I'd need one of these," he said, indicating the cup tucked firmly into its saucer's well. "I feel like a doddering old woman! Even her ladyship the dowager doesn't need one. The last time we used the set at Downton was when the _old_ Lord Shackleton visited – and he was older than Methesulah!"

"Mr. Carson, there's no shame in it. It will take some time for you to adjust, but you'll get on." She took a sip of tea. "So what do you plan to do with your time on your first day of retirement?"

"I'm not sure. I thought I might read for a bit and then take a walk into village if the weather holds. Maybe have lunch at the Grantham Arms."

"Sounds lovely."

"It's not like being at Downton Abbey," he lamented, "but in the hustle and bustle of the village, at least I won't be alone."

"You'll never be _alone_ , Mr. Carson. I'm just a short walk away," she reminded him.

"I appreciate that, Mrs. Hughes. Truly, I do. But you've a job to do and your own life to live. You needn't be burdened with me." He set his tea down on the nearby table and looked down at his hands in his lap.

Mrs. Hughes also set her cup aside. "Mr. Carson, you mustn't think of it that way. If my visiting you will be a 'burden' to me, then by the same logic, your paying for my trip to Lytham St Annes will place a burden on _you_."

"No, never!" he was quick to correct.

"Well, then! If I'm going to allow you, as my friend, to do something kind for me, then you must allow me, as your friend, to do something kind for you in return."

He smiled. "Is that meant to be logical … or threatening?"

"Think what you will. It's perfectly reasonable, but if you're going to be difficult about it, then so will I!"

"I don't wish to fall out with you, Mrs. Hughes. I shall do as you say and accept your kindness with a grateful spirit."

"That's better. Now, I must be off."

She stood and took their cups to his kitchen, and he followed. She washed the cups, and his hands were still enough that he was able to dry them. When they were done, they walked towards the front door. He took her coat from the hook and helped her put it on, then reached for his own.

"I'll walk you back," he stated, not expecting any objection.

But she did protest. "Nonsense! You've only just left that house. Stay here and enjoy your peace and quiet."

"But I'd like to see you safely back," he insisted.

"And so you can. You can look out this window and watch me. You'll be able to see me the whole way." Mrs. Hughes was correct, of course: from his front window, Mr. Carson could indeed see Downton Abbey, a fact that comforted him exceedingly. "It's the middle of the day. I'll be perfectly safe," she added.

Mr. Carson was reluctant at first to permit her walk alone, but then the thought came to him that he would prefer to part with Mrs. Hughes here, in the privacy of his cottage, rather than in the courtyard or at the back entrance to the house.

"Very well, Mrs. Hughes," he conceded. "But you must promise to turn and wave to me before you slip inside."

She grinned at him. "It's a deal, Mr. Carson."

Suddenly and with great force, he realized that this was their goodbye. Oh, he would see her again before too long. But things would never be the same. She wouldn't be in the next room, laboring away at her desk while he worked at his. He wouldn't hear the click of her heels or the jangling of her keys as she glided from room to room. He wouldn't catch a whiff of her scent as he passed her in the corridor. He couldn't seek her out just for her company. He felt her loss already, even as she still stood in front of him.

"I shall miss you," he said with great emotion.

"And I you," she agreed.

They stared into one another's eyes for a long moment. Then he laid his hand on her shoulder, bent down, and placed a lingering kiss on her cheek. When he drew back slightly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and embraced him, and he slid his arms around her waist and returned the embrace. They separated their bodies somewhat, but their hands remained in place, holding each other.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Hughes," he whispered.

"No, Mr. Carson. Not 'goodbye.' ' _I'll see you soon_ ,'" she corrected.

He smiled feebly through his tears. "I'll see you soon, Mrs. Hughes."

The moment was bittersweet. She felt so good in his arms, and he would have liked to hold her forever, but he knew he must release her, and so he did. He moved to the door, opened it for her, and followed her outside. Instead of observing from his window as she'd suggested, he stood just outside his door and watched her make the short journey back to the house. When she reached the courtyard, she did indeed turn and wave, and he waved back. Then he went back inside to face his lonely cottage and his first day of retirement.

 **A/N *A "** _ **trembleuse**_ **" cup is a cup that sits in a deep-welled saucer or a saucer with a raised rim in the middle to hold the cup in place. The first** _ **trembleuse**_ **cups were made in Paris in about 1690. They were intended for people who suffered from hand tremors, the idea being that those so afflicted might hold their cups without spilling the contents. Sometimes, these cups even came with lids. Originally, they were used for coffee and hot chocolate, but they would have worked just as well for tea – or any other drink, really. (See my tumblr page for picturess.) Fortuitously, I came across this information when I was researching something else entirely, and what I found was useful for this story.**

 **Please leave me a review if you can spare the time and effort. Your feedback is important to me. Thanks in advance.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thank you for all of your kindness towards me and your support for this story. You're wonderful, all of you. Special nod to guest reviewers whom I can't thank personally.**

 **This is my very,** _ **very**_ **late entry for Week 7 of S8. I know today is Week 8, and I do still plan to have a Week 8 chapter ready to post soon. After that, I plan to keep updating as often as possible until the story is finished. I apologize that it's taken me so long to write this, and I thank you for your patience and encouragement. I appreciate your not giving up on me.**

 **Hope you enjoy this!**

 _June, 1925_

She missed him. _Dreadfully_. In the months since Mr. Carson had retired, Mrs. Hughes had keenly felt his absence in every aspect of her daily existence. At breakfast, instead of taking solace in Mr. Carson's warm presence beside her, she endured the indifferent company of Mr. Barrow seated next to her, presiding over the meal. Throughout the day, rather than listening for Mr. Carson's deep, melodious voice ringing out in the corridors, she tried to ignore Mr. Barrow's less pleasant tones echoing throughout the rooms of the house. When she sat with Mr. Barrow discussing household matters, his sharp cologne invaded her nostrils, and she longed for Mr. Carson's comforting scent.

It wasn't that she disliked Mr. Barrow personally. Indeed, the young man had come a long way in the years she'd known him, and he was no longer the troubled, angry youth he'd once been. Mrs. Hughes had always maintained an optimistic view of human nature. From the day the young lad arrived at Downton as a hall boy and immediately began making trouble, she'd always believed that there was some good in him, buried deep inside, and that eventually, given some nurturing and the proper set of circumstances, that hidden good would manifest itself. And recently, he'd proven her correct. After a difficult period, he'd found some measure of peace and contentment, and he was now making his way in the world. He hadn't had an easy time of it, but he'd become a softer, kinder man, and she was proud of him for his efforts. Likewise, she had no complaints about his professional performance. Benefiting from Mr. Carson's past teaching and Mrs. Hughes's current guidance, the new butler had proven quite capable in his first months. His lordship had no complaints about the level of service, and even Mr. Carson was reluctantly proud of the job his successor was doing. Mrs. Hughes's only objection to Mr. Barrow was that he was _not_ Mr. Carson. Her newly ascended counterpart served to remind her what – and _whom_ – she'd lost.

She hadn't lost Mr. Carson entirely, of course. When nothing in particular was going on at the house and she had no responsibilities in the evening, she left Mrs. Patmore in charge of things and went to Mr. Carson's cottage to have dinner with him: either something Mrs. Patmore had generously provided or a simple meal that Mrs. Hughes herself would prepare in Mr. Carson's kitchen. On days when he knew Mrs. Hughes was busy and couldn't get away from her work, Mr. Carson came to the big house to have tea with her. Occasionally, he had legitimate business at the house (consulting with Mr. Barrow on a wine order or some such thing), and she saw him then, too. And on her half days, she enjoyed long walks with him on the abbey grounds or in the village. On those days, they took tea together in the village or had dinner at the pub. And of course, she saw him on Sundays at church services. Still, it wasn't nearly enough.

But on _this_ day, she _would_ see him, and she was counting the seconds until she could make her way to his cottage.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

In the months since his retirement, Mr. Carson had settled into a bit of a routine. He would wake with the sun, decades of early rising having ingrained the habit in him. After bathing, he _might_ attempt to shave … _if_ his hands cooperated. If his fingers were especially uncooperative on a given day, he would forgo shaving and plan a trip to the village barbershop later. Once he'd completed his morning ablutions, he would dress (sometimes struggling with buttons or studs or links but always managing eventually) and then cobble together a simple breakfast (he'd become adept enough to manage toast, eggs, and bacon, even with unreliable hands), which he would eat while reading the morning paper. After breakfast, he would walk into the village. If he hadn't been able to shave earlier, he would visit Mr. Evans, the barber.

At first, Mr. Carson had been reluctant and embarrassed to admit to the man that he was unable to perform such a simple task for himself. But the alternatives – slicing his face or neck in a failed attempt or simply going about unshaven and sloppy – would have proven even _more_ mortifying. Mr. Carson made it his habit to arrive at the shop early; rarely were there other customers at that time. Mr. Evans had an easy way about him, and Mr. Carson had always liked him. Even after his shave, Mr. Carson often stayed to chat with the affable barber. On his previous visits, before his retirement (always for _haircuts_ and not just shaves), Mr. Carson had never enjoyed the luxury of lingering leisurely. But now, having time to spare, the erstwhile butler found the friendly barber to be a kindred spirit, another traditionalist who bemoaned the country's falling standards and the dissolution of society. And in the face of such pleasant diversion, it hadn't taken Mr. Carson very long to overcome his shame. Mr. Evans had even offered to make himself available to shave Mr. Carson before church services on Sundays, when his shop was not open to anyone else, and Mr. Carson had accepted the offer once or twice, not wanting to appear at church looking less than his best.

While still in the village after his chat with Mr. Evans, Mr. Carson would take care of any other errands he might need to complete: purchases at various shops, visits to the post office and the bank, and other, similar matters. Then he would return to his cottage and read, potter about, and attend to any necessary chores. If it were a _good_ day, he might have business at the abbey – consulting with Mr. Barrow on a future wine order or some such thing – and he might get to spend a few minutes with Mrs. Hughes. If it were a _very_ good day, he might be fortunate enough to see her for tea or dinner.

When she first started visiting him at his cottage, he'd expressed his worries about her reputation, fearing that people might assume the worst when she visited a man alone at his home, particularly in the evenings. But she'd convinced him that no one would ever suspect either of them of any impropriety. They always sat in his front room or at his kitchen table, always with the curtains open, always in full view of anyone who might pass by in the lane outside. And he always walked her back to the abbey at a respectable time.

This particular day had started out as a very good day: Mr. Carson was expecting Mrs. Hughes later for dinner. The day had quickly turned bad, however, when Mr. Carson's hands refused to oblige him in shaving, and his day became even worse when he visited Mr. Evans's shop, only to find a sign on the door explaining that the barber had taken ill and his shop would be closed for the day. After his fruitless trip to the barbershop, Mr. Carson hastily made his way back to his cottage.

He endeavored several times over the next few hours to manage a satisfactory shave, but his hands shook too much, and he aborted most attempts after a few passes with the razor. As the hour grew later, he grew more desperate, and he finally succeeded in removing all of his whiskers shortly before Mrs. Hughes was expected. He counted among his battle scars three small nicks of little consequence and more substantial cut on his upper lip. It had taken some time and effort to get the cut on his lip to stop bleeding, but he'd finally managed, just minutes before Mrs. Hughes's arrival.

As he stood looking out his window, waiting to catch a glimpse of her, his heart beat a little faster. Eager to see her, he paced back and forth in front of the window. He wondered whether she looked forward to their time together as much as he did. He hoped so. Soon, his impatience was rewarded, and he spied her figure in the distance.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mrs. Hughes's step quickened as she approached the cottage in the lane. She hoped that Mr. Carson was as eager to see her and she was to see him. And perhaps he was, for when she reached his doorstep, the door swung open before she even had the chance to knock.

Mr. Carson greeted her cheerfully. "Hello, Mrs. Hughes. It's good to see you."

"Oh! Mr. Carson! You've cut yourself! You're bleeding!" exclaimed Mrs. Hughes, upset at seeing his handsome face marred.

He reached for his upper lip. "Oh! Am I still? I thought I'd stopped it."

"Well, you haven't done. Let me see." She set down her handbag and the dinner basket she'd brought, and she encouraged him to step closer and stoop down a bit. Laying a hand on his cheek, she ran her thumb over his lip and examined the injury. Then she took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the wound.

"It's nothing, I'm sure," he protested weakly. "Just a scratch."

But she insisted otherwise. "This will never do," she said. "Come here." She steered him to the sofa, and they both sat. While holding the cloth to his face, she applied gentle pressure, but the cut still bled.

"I'm sure it will stop in a minute," he tried again.

"Here. Hold this," she instructed, handing him the handkerchief. "I assume you've some medical supplies and some alum* in the bathroom?" Without waiting for an answer, she got up and went to retrieve the necessary items, and in a moment, she was back beside him on the sofa.

Having placed her supplies on the nearby tea table along with the soiled handkerchief, she opened a bottle of antiseptic and poured some on a clean cloth. "This will sting a bit," she warned him unnecessarily.

He winced slightly at the first contact but allowed her to cleanse the wound. She wished she could concentrate on her task, but being so near him … smelling him … touching his face, his lips … all had an effect on her. Once she was satisfied that she'd thoroughly disinfected the cut, she set the cloth aside, picked up the stick of alum, and moistened it with water from a small cup. Then she carefully applied the substance to the injury and was able to staunch the flow of blood, drying the alum stick and putting it down afterwards. Turning back to her patient, she ran her index finger lightly over the sealed cut and the area around it to assure herself she'd done a satisfactory job. She cupped his chin and gently turned his face this way and that, just to be certain the bleeding had stopped. This scrutiny also provided her with a welcome excuse to touch him and to admire his face, so dear to her. She struggled mightily to stop herself from pressing her own lips to the area at which she was gazing so intently.

Mr. Carson, for his part, had been similarly affected. The entire time Mrs. Hughes was treating his injury, he'd sat spellbound – stock still, hardly daring to breathe – and had let her work her magic … on his cut and on _him_. Her fingers had been soft and warm and delicate on his face, and she had been so close that he had felt and heard her gentle breaths, had caught her scent when he breathed in. While she'd concentrated on ministering to his medical needs, he'd studied her lovely face. After a while, her beauty had become too much for him to endure at such close range, and he'd had to close his eyes. He'd actually been grateful for the bracing sting of the disinfectant, for had it not jarred him back to his senses, he might have leaned in just that much closer and kissed her.

Having completed her inspection of his injury and the results her handiwork, now satisfied that all was well, she allowed her hand to drift down to rest lightly on his chest.

"There," she breathed. "All better."

Mr. Carson covered her hand with his own. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you for caring for me," he said earnestly.

"I do care for you, Mr. Carson," she returned. "It's because I care for you _affectionately_ , as a dear friend, that I want to care for you _practically_ , as well."

"I don't think I've ever met a kinder soul," said Mr. Carson.

They sat looking into each other's eyes for a breathless moment before Mrs. Hughes continued. "Now, then. Will you tell me what's happened to your poor lip here?" She removed her hand from his chest and touched his lip lightly again.

"Well, as I'm sure you've guessed, I've sliced myself while trying to shave," he told her, embarrassed to admit it aloud, even though she'd already seen the evidence of his clumsiness. "It should come as no surprise to you that I have difficulty."

"No, I'm not surprised, but why did you even _try_?" she wanted to know. "Our village is blessed with a fine barber in Mr. Evans."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Evans is a fine barber and a good man," agreed Mr. Carson, "and I've availed myself of his services many times recently. However, as it happens, he is ill today, and so his shop is closed."

"Oh, I see."

"Yes."

"Well, then, why did you not simply wait until tomorrow or the next day or … whenever he's well again?" she asked.

"I didn't want to appear slovenly," he said simply.

"But who would have seen you? Did you even need to go out anywhere? Did you have some urgent business today?"

"I was expecting _you_."

" _Me_!?" she cried. "Mr. Carson, I would hate think you've done yourself an injury on _my_ account!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I want you to think well of me, Mrs. Hughes. Surely you must know that your good opinion matters a great deal to me."

"And surely _you_ must know, Mr. Carson, that I hold you in the highest regard – whether you're clean-shaven or not!"

He _did_ know, of course. She'd shown him in so many ways. Still, his heart fluttered madly when he heard her say it, and he struggled to formulate an appropriate response. "Right. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. That's very kind," he said.

"Why don't I set out our dinner now?" she suggested, standing. "It should still be warm."

He rose also. "And I'll take all this back to the bathroom. Then I'll come back and help you. I'm sorry about your handkerchief. I'll wash it and give it back to you the next time I see you. If it's stained, I'll replace it for you."

She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. "Oh, never mind about that! I've got plenty of others."

While Mr. Carson put away the medical supplies and his alum stick, Mrs. Hughes got her basket and set out their dinner. A short time later, they sat at the kitchen table enjoying Mrs. Patmore's pot roast with vegetables and freshly baked bread, accompanied by a nice bottle of wine. Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson all the latest news from the big house, and he told her about the mother starling who had made her nest in the tree outside his bedroom window and her chicks who had just hatched. After dinner and a slice of apple pie each, they cleared, washed, and dried the dishes and adjourned to the parlor to finish the last of the wine.

As their conversation continued, Mr. Carson noticed Mrs. Hughes's eyes growing heavy and suggested that he should walk her back to the abbey. He excused himself to take their glasses into the kitchen. By the time he'd rinsed them out and returned, she'd fallen asleep on his sofa. She looked so peaceful that he couldn't bring himself to wake her, so he sat in his armchair and watched her sleep. He expected her to wake before long, and then he would see her back to the house. But as the time grew later, she only fell more deeply into slumber. He wondered what he should do, and after some consideration, he arrived at a plan.

First, he placed a telephone call to the abbey, trying to speak as quietly as possible so as not to wake his sleeping guest. Then, he got the pillow and the quilt from his bed and tried to make Mrs. Hughes more comfortable. He disturbed her as little as possible while shifting her into a more horizontal position, placing his pillow under her head, and covering her with his quilt. Finally, he knelt beside her for a moment and just admired her. As she lay there looking so beautiful, he couldn't resist brushing a few loose strands of hair from her forehead and leaving a kiss in their place.

He turned off the lights, drew the curtains, and settled himself back into his armchair, wanting to remain nearby in case she should wake. He didn't expect Mrs. Hughes to sleep through the entire night, and he didn't want her to do something as foolish as attempting to walk back to the big house alone in the middle of the night.

As Mr. Carson sat, he pondered the woman on his sofa. He loved her. And he was certain that she cared deeply for him, too, though he hesitated to presume that her feelings might extend to love. He _hoped_ she might love him, but he couldn't be sure. Months ago, he'd been ready to propose, and he would have found out then, but fate had had other plans. Still, in the intervening time, she'd shown her affection, her devotion in countless ways. He hadn't asked her to marry him because he didn't want her to be stuck caring for him in his diminished capacity, and yet, ironically, she'd willingly chosen to do just that. At times, he almost decided to throw caution to the wind and propose anyway, but if she were to marry him, then she really _would be_ stuck. At least this way, she was not bound to him. If it became too much for her, if she grew tired of him, as he feared she would, there was no commitment, no obligation. She could decide at any time to leave him to his own devices. These thoughts wore heavy on his mind and on his heart as he drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later, he was awakened when he heard Mrs. Hughes beginning to stir. She sat up and noticed him sitting in the chair.

"Oh! Mr. Carson!" she said.

"Shhhhh. It's all right, Mrs. Hughes," he assured her.

"But I've fallen asleep on your sofa! And it's the middle of the night! I need to get back."

"No, you don't. Not now. I've called the house and spoken to Mrs. Patmore. She said she'd take care of everything. She was going to tell everyone that you'd gone up to bed with a headache. As far as anyone else knows, you're in your room in the attics. I'll walk you back to the house at first light. Mrs. Patmore will be up early; she'll be expecting you, and she'll make sure you get up to your room without being seen."

"Are you sure? Mr. Carson, I'm so sorry."

"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, all right, then," she acquiesced. "You're right. It's probably not wise to be out at this hour. But I think I should walk back to the house on my own in the morning. Just in case I _am_ seen, it will look less suspicious if I'm alone."

"Hmm. Well, I don't like the idea, but you do have a point," he conceded.

"It will be light out then, and you can watch me from your window."

"Oh, you can be certain I will!"

"But why don't you go and get into bed now. I'll be fine here."

"No, I couldn't. Not while you're out here on the sofa. Would you … ? Do you think … ? Oh, good heavens, there's no good way to say this! I can't decide whether it's more gentlemanly to be concerned for your comfort or your virtue! At the risk of offending you, I'm going to choose your comfort. Please excuse me if this sounds too forward, but would you like to sleep in my bed? While I stay out here, of course."

She chuckled. "Mr. Carson, that's the most innocent proposition I've ever heard!"

"Do you receive many?" he asked in shock.

She laughed harder. "Not me personally, no. None at all, in fact. But I do get about, Mr. Carson. I hear things."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." He was afraid to ask what sorts of things she might hear. "So would you like to use the bed, then?"

"Thank you, but no. I'm quite content right here. And you're certain _you_ won't use the bed?"

"I'm happy where I am, thank you. I have no pressing business tomorrow. I can sleep some more after you leave if I need to. But right now, you need your rest, young lady."

"Good night, then, Mr. Carson."

"Pleasant dreams, Mrs. Hughes."

Mrs. Hughes left at dawn. Mr. Carson watched her walk back, and she turned and waved to him before she entered the courtyard and crept inside the house.

 **A/N *In case you don't know, alum is a chemical compound (aluminum potassium sulfate dodecahydrate, KAl(SO** **4** **)2 12H** **2** **O, to be specific) that's used as a styptic (to stop bleeding), an astringent (to constrict body tissues), and an antiseptic (to prevent infection). (And if you think about it, that's some pretty remarkable multi-purpose stuff right there!) It's sometimes used locally in stick form, called a "styptic pencil," to treat minor shaving cuts. Similarly, a bar or block of the substance can be rubbed all over the face after shaving to help close up the pores and reduce irritation.**

 **As a side note, since this story already diverges from canon, I am pointedly ignoring certain canon events that occurred during S6 – events such as Thomas's suicide attempt and Robert's ulcer, among others. This story is Chelsie-centric, and there's already enough drama and angst without bringing in the troubles of outside characters. In this story, Thomas is already butler now, so we can pretend that perhaps he wasn't feeling quite so desperate and desolate. And Robert's bloody scene in the dining room certainly provided some … well, some** _ **excitement**_ **… but I think we can do without it here. I may or may not end up alluding to other canon events.**

 **On another note, after the last chapter, ChelsieSouloftheAbbey requested the falling asleep/forehead smooch bit that appeared in this chapter. I was pleased to inform her that I already had it in the works, but even if I hadn't already planned it, I probably would have given in to that particular request. ;-)**

 **Please review if you're able. Your encouraging words keep me going. Those of you who write and post stories know how important it is to be reassured that people are enjoying your work. And I hope those of you who have never posted a story will believe me when I say that readers' feedback motivates and inspires writers to write more and to write better.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Thank you for all of your kindness towards me and your support for this story. This is my very,** _ **very**_ **late offering for Week 8 of S8. But here it is anyway. I'll continue to update this story as frequently as I possibly can. I know it's been very slow going, and I thank you for your patience and for sticking with me.**

 **Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who contributed to S8 and to everyone else who encouraged those who contributed. It's been and privilege and a pleasure to enjoy all the offerings.**

 _July, 1925_

One sunny summer morning, Mr. Carson presented himself at the servants' entrance to Downton Abbey, was admitted by a hall boy, and made his way to Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. He found her gathering her things and getting ready. The two were planning to visit Mr. Carson's house on Brouncker Road* to monitor the workmen's progress on the renovations. Since the workers were awaiting the delivery of some supplies and would not be present, it would be a convenient time for Mr. Carson to perform a thorough inspection, accompanied and aided by Mrs. Hughes.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she greeted him. "Right on time, as always. It's good to see you."

"Hello, Mrs. Hughes," he returned. "I hope all is well."

"Yes, thank you. I'm looking forward to our outing."

"Likewise. Are you ready, then?"

"I am."

He extended his arm, inviting her to precede him. "Shall we?"

They left the house and proceeded into the lane leading from the abbey towards the village. As they walked, they discussed topics like how Anna was faring with her pregnancy and how Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie were settling back into life at Downton since their return from America. Though their conversation remained light, both parties were occupied by thoughts of a more serious nature. Once they'd arrived at the house and were walking about the empty parlor with its bare windows, Mr. Carson shifted the conversation towards the subject that he'd been considering for some time.

"Mrs. Hughes, when the renovations are complete, I'll need to furnish and decorate the house – to choose furniture pieces, curtains, linens, lamps, rugs, and such. You've a keen eye, and I wonder whether you might help me."

But Mrs. Hughes seemed distracted. "Hmm? What's that? Oh, yes. Of course, I'll help you, Mr. Carson," she answered, but it was obvious that she wasn't lending him her full attention.

He hadn't come to his _real_ question yet – the _important_ one – but he first needed to find out what was troubling her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "What is it, Mrs. Hughes? What's wrong?"

And now Mrs. Hughes broached the subject that had occupied _her_ thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," she apologized, shaking her head to rein in her concentration. "I'm a bit preoccupied. You see, I've had a letter from my cousin Nellie, the one who cares for my sister," she said. They hadn't discussed Mrs. Hughes's sister or her situation in any great detail, but Mrs. Hughes had recently mentioned that she'd like to visit Becky sometime soon, and Mr. Carson had once again insisted that Mrs. Hughes allow him to underwrite the expenses.

Mr. Carson looked at her in concern. "It's not bad news, I hope."

"Not _bad_ , exactly, no," she qualified, "but it's not good, either."

"What is it?" he wanted to know.

"Well, you see," she began explaining, "Nellie is distant cousin of mine. She offered to take Becky in for me after my mother died."

"That was kind of her," he said.

"It was," she agreed. "Very kind. She was – still is – a widow. At that time, her children were already grown and had moved away. She lived alone and worked as a seamstress. Nellie knew that I couldn't have Becky with me while I worked as a maid, but she insisted that she would be able to care for Becky in her home while she worked. Conveniently, she did her sewing at home, rather than in a shop, but she did only odd jobs here and there. She didn't earn much as a seamstress: barely enough to support _herself_ – never mind _someone else, too_. Her children sent her money when they could, but they had families of their own to support. I accepted her generous offer to look after Becky only on condition that I would send her whatever money I could spare."

Mr. Carson was once again touched by Mrs. Hughes's generosity. He'd been moved when she first told him that she'd been supporting her sister, but to find out now that she'd also been aiding her widowed cousin affected him even more deeply. He was amazed by her capacity to keep saying and doing things that made him love her even more. He didn't quite know what to say, but he was spared having to respond when Mrs. Hughes continued.

"But now … well, Nellie's getting on. She never complains, but I suspect it's getting difficult for her to get by without help. She's hinted that her son would like to take her in – to have her live with him and his family." Mrs. Hughes paused for a moment to gather herself, and Mr. Carson thought he knew what she going to say next. He was correct, for she elaborated, "I can't ask her to take Becky with her. I'm certain her son and his wife would offer to have them both, but it would be too much for them. So now, I'll need to make other arrangements for Becky, and I'm not sure what to do. I'd care for her myself, but then I'd need to stop working, and we'd have no money to live on – or even a place to live. And I don't know anyone else who'd take her in. Perhaps I could find a home for people like Becky, but … "

She let out a choked sob, and he took her hand in his, caressing it soothingly. Realizing this was the perfect time to raise the matter he'd been contemplating, he pressed forward. "Mrs. Hughes, I've had an idea that I've been pondering for some time now, and I'd like you to hear me out before you say anything. Let me put forth my whole proposal to you before you answer."

"All right," replied Mrs. Hughes quietly.

Mr. Carson began to lay out his scheme. "You know that the restorations here at the house will be complete soon." He raised his eyebrows and waited for her confirmatory nod before continuing. "Well, once it's ready, I'll need someone to run it. I'll hire a girl from the village to do the cooking and cleaning, but I'd like to have someone I trust staying here to oversee things. I know it would be a step down for you – _several_ steps down, in truth. It certainly wouldn't come close the prestige of the position you now hold, and I wouldn't be able to pay you as much as the family does. But you'd have room and board; I can offer comfortable lodging and decent meals, at least. And it would mean less work for you." He paused here and looked at her uncertainly before pressing on haltingly. "But most importantly … if you'd like …. if you think it would be a good idea … well, you might have your sister stay with you. The maid … or … cook – the girl from the village, that is – will have the small room downstairs. But the front bedroom upstairs is quite large, and you and Becky could stay there. That still leaves two rooms to let out, and … well, I think the income from those two rooms should cover our expenses and still allow for a fair profit."

He released a long breath, and Mrs. Hughes looked at him in wonder.

"So there you have it," he said. "I don't know if this situation sounds at all attractive to you, but will you consider it?"

Mrs. Hughes was overcome. "But Mr. Carson! Why don't _you_ move here and supervise things yourself? Surely that would make more sense!"

"Not with a hired girl living here!" he exclaimed. "That would hardly be appropriate – to say nothing of how _awkward_ it would prove! And besides that, I've been thinking about something else. If _you_ were to manage the house for me, it could be more of a … _boarding house_ than a bed-and-breakfast type of guesthouse. That would mean more stability … less uncertainty. We could let out the rooms to women lodgers for a long term. I wouldn't feel comfortable having strange men about, coming and going – not with you and your sister and a hired girl living here. For your safety, we'd let out the rooms to respectable women only."

Mrs. Hughes remained silent, still thinking about what Mr. Carson had proposed, and he stepped even closer, taking her other hand, too, so that he held both of her hands in his.

"Mrs. Hughes, if you're agreeable, I would very much like for you to live here," he told her earnestly, urgently, his eyes fixed firmly on hers. "I don't mind telling you that when you first told me about your sister, I was quite moved. It broke my heart to think that she's all you've got left of your close family; you've had to work so hard all this time to provide for her, and you can't even be with her. I was going to ask you to do this even before you told me of your cousin's situation, but now … Well, I'm even _more_ convinced that my plan is a good idea." He looked at her expectantly, hopefully. "But if you _were_ to live here, could Becky be with you? Would you be able to care for her?"

"Well, yes, but – "

"Then consider it. _Please_. When you go to Lytham St Annes, talk to your cousin and to your sister."

"But it's too generous, Mr. Carson! You'd be providing for me … _and_ for Becky … and getting very little out of the bargain yourself! It doesn't sound like the job requires much work beyond my presence and a careful eye. It sounds like charity to me," she protested.

"That's wholly untrue," he argued, squeezing her hands gently. "You'd be doing me a great service. But even if it _were true_ , Mrs. Hughes, I cannot begin to count the _other_ things you've done for me. Why, recently, you fell asleep on my sofa because you'd run yourself ragged managing Downton _and_ taking care of this helpless, old fool. _Please_ consider it. I do hope the situation proves advantageous for you, but the fact remains that I do need someone here to manage the affairs of this house, to keep it running smoothly. There's no one better suited than you are, with all your skill and knowledge and experience in such matters. But more importantly … there's no one in the world whom I trust more than you. If I am to have a … partner … in this endeavor, I don't want it to be anyone but you."

The dear man was trying so hard to persuade her that his motives were for his own benefit, but she was convinced that this was the most selfless thing anyone had ever done for her. A moment ago, she hadn't thought she could ever love him more, but he'd just proven her wrong. She withdrew her hands from his, threw her arms about his neck, and buried her face in his shoulder, allowing tears of relief and gratitude to fall freely while still managing to stifle any actual sobs. Mr. Carson rubbed her back with comforting strokes. After a moment, Mrs. Hughes pulled away. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, reining in her tears and forcing down the lump in her throat.

"Well, Mr. Carson," she said, "you've given me a great deal to think about."

"Good. You _will_ think about it, then?" he asked, taking her face in his hands and wiping her tears with his thumbs.

"I will," she promised, smiling up at him. But they both knew that her decision was a foregone conclusion.

"I do hope you might be happy here," said Mr. Carson.

"I already am," she assured him, smiling brightly.

And they finished their tour of inspection, already thinking and speaking as if the house would be not only Mr. Carson's place of business but also Mrs. Hughes's new home.

 **A/N *We don't know a lot about the house on Brouncker Road. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes looked at properties in the S5 CS. It seems that some of the houses were probably in the village of Downton (in one scene, they walked through the churchyard gate), and others might have been in nearby villages ("We take the bus to Helmsley, and then it's a bit of a hike."). It suits my purposes for this fic to have the house in or near Downton, so I'm going to go with that. I spoke to a few different people to confirm that I wasn't missing any information on the location of the house, and their understanding of the situation agreed with mine. Thank you, ladies.**

 **Also, when Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were discussing the different possibilities, Mr. Carson said, "These four are real contenders: three good-sized bedrooms, bathroom already installed, and a room off the kitchen for a maid," and then later, "If we're offering bed and breakfast, there should be someone there to run it." It sounded like they intended to rent out the rooms for short stays, in the manner of a "bed and breakfast" or a guesthouse, just as Mrs. Patmore later did. But I think renting out rooms to regular lodgers (women, especially) for longer periods, more in the manner of a boarding house, will be better in this case, if Mrs. Hughes and her sister are going to be living there. I can't see Mr. Carson being comfortable with strangers coming and going under the same roof where Mrs. Hughes lives; I think he'll be far more comfortable if the people staying there are the same women all the time, (whose references and credentials he can check thoroughly and whom Mrs. Hughes can get to know and grow to trust).**

 **Anyway, those are just my thoughts on the house on Brouncker Road. I figured I'd share.**

 **More to come soon. If you'd kindly leave a review, I'd be most grateful. Thanks in advance.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Hi! I haven't abandoned this story. I'm sorry I've left it for so long, but real-life events have not cooperated to allow me very much time or energy for writing. Since it's been such a long time since I've updated and you may have forgotten, I'll do a quick recap.**

 _ **Brief summary of what's happened so far**_ _ **:**_ _ **Mr. Carson was getting ready to propose to Mrs. Hughes at Christmastime in 1924, just as he did in canon, but then the tremors in his hands set in, and he decided not to propose after all, because he didn't want to be a burden to her. He retired alone, and she has been visiting him at his cottage when she can (she still works at Downton Abbey), spending time with him, and taking care of him. He's still going ahead with his plans to renovate and rent out the house on Brouncker Road (which he bought and registered in both of their names, though he still hasn't told her that her name is on the deed alongside his), and he's asked her to live at the house and manage it for him as a boarding house for women. He's also invited her to have Becky live with her at the house so that the sisters can be together. Mrs. Hughes is technically still considering Mr. Carson's offer, but we all know it's a done deal.**_

 **Ok. That should catch you up. I think those are all the important highlights.**

 **Thank you all for your continuing support for me and for my story. Thank you for your patience and for sticking with me. Your kindness and encouragement make writing far more enjoyable and fulfilling than it would be if I didn't have the privilege of interacting with all of you.**

 _September, 1925_

She couldn't wait to see him again. Sitting on the train, on the last leg of her journey home, just a few miles from the Downton station, she felt her heart beating faster and her stomach quivering with the anticipation of seeing him again. She'd been gone for only four days, and yet somehow it seemed like months. And she was eager to tell him her news, excited to confirm that she would indeed like to move ahead with their plan. She wondered whether he missed her as much as she missed him, whether he were as eager for them to be reunited as she was. As she sat looking out the window, the miles passed far more slowly than she would have liked.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He was desperate to see her again. He'd been pacing the platform and checking his pocket watch more frequently than he'd care to admit. After a while, he'd given up tucking the timepiece back into his pocket and simply held it in his hand. It had been only a matter of few days since he'd seen her off at the station, but it felt like so much longer. He mentally chided himself for being so impatient. He doubted that she lamented their separation as sorely as he did. And he desperately hoped that she had favorable news to report. As he stood staring down the tracks, the minutes ticked by far too slowly to suit him.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

At last, as the train pulled into the station, she caught sight of him on the platform. She smiled and waved to him through the window as the train slowed.

When the train came to a halt, he scanned the passengers' faces in the windows, finally identifying hers. She was smiling at him and waving. He smiled, waved back, and started moving towards her carriage.

She gathered up her belongings and proceeded to exit the compartment. A porter stood to one side of the steps, helping passengers down, but Mr. Carson waited on the other side and offered Mrs. Hughes his hand as she descended.

"Hello, Mrs. Hughes," he greeted her warmly, squeezing her hand gently and not letting go. "It's good to see you again. How was your visit?"

"Hello, Mr. Carson. It's good to see you, too. My visit was very nice, thank you," she told him.

"And your sister and cousin are well, I hope?" he inquired politely.

"Oh, yes. They're both well."

"I'm glad to hear it. May I carry your things?"

"Oh! That would be kind," she told him. "Thank you. Why don't you take my bag, and I'll hold on to this?"

She handed him her traveling bag but maintained custody of her other parcel, a medium-sized box. He took her bag and offered her his arm as they departed the platform.

"I'll walk you straight back to the house if you'd like, but I wonder whether you might like to stop for some tea first," he offered hopefully, with raised eyebrows. "Perhaps some biscuits or cakes, too, if you're hungry?"

"I'm not especially hungry … " she began.

"Oh. Of course. I'm sorry. You must be tired. You'll want to get back." He was disappointed and felt foolish and selfish for asking.

"No, I'm not tired, and I'm not in a hurry to get back," she clarified. "What I mean to say is … while I'm not terribly hungry, I wouldn't mind sitting down and having a chat with you." She cast her eyes down before adding softly, "I've missed you, Mr. Carson."

His heart sped up considerably at hearing that, and he couldn't help admitting, "I've missed you, too, Mrs. Hughes. Very much. I know it's been only a few days, but I've been … Well, I'm glad you're back."

"So am I. I'm _very_ happy to be home," she declared with a soft smile.

They strolled through the village streets until they arrived at Mrs. Curtis's teashop. Upon entering, they exchanged pleasantries with the proprietress, then settled into a quiet table in the corner and requested a pot of tea.

"Did Mrs. Patmore look in on you while I was gone?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mr. Carson once they were situated comfortably.

"Oh, yes. She visited twice and sent Daisy and Andrew to bring me dinner one evening. And Lady Mary and his lordship stopped to say hello yesterday on their way to the village," he told her.

"Oh, good. So you haven't been too lonesome, then. Not with all those visitors," she commented.

"On the contrary, Mrs. Hughes," he said, looking at her gravely, "my _favorite_ visitor has been absent, and I've been very lonely indeed."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense, Mr. Carson! I'm sure you hardly noticed I was gone!" she demurred.

"That's not true at all. You've no idea – " he stopped and lowered his voice before continuing. "You must believe me when I say that I've been quite desolate without you."

She smiled and looked down at the table in front of her. "Only if you believe that I've been thinking about you the whole time and couldn't wait to get home."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, also casting his eyes down and smiling.

Just then, the serving girl arrived with the tea. The couple discontinued their conversation temporarily and then resumed it once they'd poured the tea and fixed it to their liking.

Ignoring his tea – firstly because he feared rattling his cup and saucer and spilling his tea and secondly because he had more important concerns on his mind than tea – Mr. Carson leaned forward and shifted closer to Mrs. Hughes. "Tell me about your trip," he prompted. He was eager to know whether she'd discussed bringing her sister to live with her at the house on Brouncker Road, but he didn't want to be too forward.

"Well, it was lovely to see Becky and Nellie, of course. They're both in good spirits, but Nellie is certainly slowing down," she reported. "I can see that it's difficult for her to keep up with it all."

"And did you speak to her about … about … ?" He lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

"I did. And she said that Donald, her son, is ready to take her in at any time. She was relieved and pleased to hear that I'd found a good situation and would be able to take Becky," Mrs. Hughes informed him.

Mr. Carson felt his heart leap a little in his chest. "Really? So she was agreeable?" he asked eagerly.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "She was."

"And what about Becky? Did you discuss it with her? How would she feel about moving? I wouldn't want her to be unhappy or upset."

"I did talk with her about it, yes. I told her that a very generous man … " – and here she reached out to cover his hand with hers – " … a _dear_ man, a _lovely_ man … has offered us both the chance to live together in a pretty house with some other ladies in the village where I live. She seemed excited about the possibility. I'm sure it all sounds like a great adventure to her. It will take some time for her to adjust to her new surroundings when the time comes, I expect, but she's a pleasant, cheerful soul, and she'll be all right."

"And you'll do it then? You'll run the house for me?" He found it difficult to hide his enthusiasm.

"I will, Mr. Carson," she smiled. "On one condition."

"Oh?" he asked.

"I won't live off your charity. If I'm to live in your house, I insist on earning my keep. The general management of the place will hardly be taxing, and I refuse to sit idle while some girl from the village does the cooking and cleaning." He began to protest, but she silenced him. "If it's to be a boarding house and not a guesthouse," she continued, "then there shouldn't be as much work to do. The women will keep their own rooms tidy and handle their own laundry. I imagine they'll take many of their meals away from the house, as well. I won't mind cleaning the common areas – I _am_ a _housekeeper_ , for goodness' sake! And since you've retired and I've been cooking for the two of us, I've become a fair hand in the kitchen. I'm no Mrs. Patmore, but my cooking is edible. I expect the women will be content with my simple fare. I'd _like_ to cook for Becky and myself – and for you, too, if you'll join us for meals. And if I'm already feeding the three of us, then it's no trouble to double the receipt to feed our boarders, too, when they're not dining elsewhere. And this way, since there won't be a hired girl staying at the house, you'll have one more room to let, _and_ you'll save the money you'd spend on her wages." She was silent for a few moments, allowing him to ponder her argument.

He sat back and folded his hands together. After due consideration, he responded. "All right, then. I will admit that it's perhaps not necessary to have a girl from the village _living_ at the house, as long as _you're_ going to be there. However, I'll not have you working your fingers to the bone, scrubbing floors and beating carpets like a common housemaid. You've done enough of that for _three_ lifetimes! I propose a compromise. We'll have the girl come once or twice a week to do the heavy cleaning jobs and to do some of the cooking, and then you can be responsible for overall management, daily oversight, and some of the lighter cleaning and cooking."

"But, Mr. Carson, I'm perfectly capable – " began Mrs. Hughes.

But Mr. Carson stopped her. "Now, Mrs. Hughes. I've listened to your reasoning, and I've agreed that some of your points are valid. I've suggested what I think is a sensible alternative. If we enact my plan, we'll still have the income from one more room, as you pointed out, and you won't be tied to the house working long hours. Don't forget that you'll be looking after your sister, too. I do believe that minding the whole house, three boarders, your sister, and your wretched, helpless fool of a landlord would be too much for _any_ one woman … no matter _how remarkable_ she may be." He regarded her earnestly before going on. "You see, to be honest, my motives are selfish. I want you still to be able to visit me at my cottage, to spend time with me. I hope that you'll still want to call on me and that you'll bring Becky, too. I look forward to becoming acquainted with her. And I'll visit you at the house, too, if that's agreeable. And I'd like you to be able to sit down to take tea with me without worrying about sweeping the floors or peeling potatoes for a roast. I readily admit that I am a selfish man, and … if you've no objection … well, I'd like to lay claim to some of your leisure time. I hope that's not too presumptuous."

He looked at her with pleading eyes, and she relented.

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Carson. You know that I can hardly refuse you when you say it like that."

At hearing her words and seeing her gentle smile, he smiled back at her. "Excellent. But since you'll be taking on many of the chores that would otherwise fall to the hired girl … well, I shall have no choice but to pay _her less_ … and _you more_."

"Don't press your luck, Mr. Carson," she warned with a wry smirk.

"Right. Well, perhaps we could put the money in a joint savings account … or a … 'house fund,'" he suggested. "But we'll discuss that later. I'm told the improvements to the house will be completed by November. I think between the two of us, we can have it furnished and decorated by Christmas. But when do you think you might move in with Becky? I'd like to take _your needs_ into consideration, too, and make sure that whatever we plan is convenient for _you_."

"As a matter of fact, Christmas sounds perfect," said Mrs. Hughes happily. "Nellie told me she'll need some time to get things in order, but she'd like to be with her son before the start of the new year. So I suppose I can go and collect Becky as soon as the house is ready."

"Splendid!" Mr. Carson exclaimed, grinning broadly. "It's settled, then."

Mrs. Hughes returned his smile before continuing. "I'd like to give the family as much notice as possible – about my leaving, I mean. I've not told anyone yet. I'll find a time soon to speak with her ladyship."

"I daresay she won't be happy to lose you," Mr. Carson remarked.

Mrs. Hughes deflected his praise. "Oh, I think Miss Baxter is more than capable. She could take over for me quite easily."

"No one could take over for you _easily_ – or _at all_ , in fact," he insisted. "You'll be sorely missed, and I hate to deprive the family of your services and your presence. But I want you to be able to care for your sister. I know that you want to be with her, and _she_ needs your services and your presence. And if it doesn't sound too pathetic … " – and here he lowered his eyes and spoke softly - " … I'll admit that _I_ need you, too."

Mrs. Hughes didn't – or couldn't – respond; she simply sat staring with her mouth slightly open.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat and pressed on. "But if Miss Baxter becomes housekeeper in your wake, then her ladyship will need a new lady's maid."

"I suppose it comes down to whether her ladyship thinks it will be easier to find a new housekeeper or a new lady's maid," commented Mrs. Hughes. "And I imagine she'll consider Miss Baxter's wishes, too."

"I should think Miss Baxter will defer to Lady Grantham," he said.

"You're probably right," she agreed. "But I'm certain her ladyship will do Miss Baxter the courtesy of asking."

"I'm sure she will. Her ladyship is nothing if not sensitive and considerate."

They made pleasant small talk for a while longer and finished their tea. Then Mr. Carson paid their bill and walked Mrs. Hughes back to the house. She invited him in, and he followed her to her sitting room, carrying her bag, as they greeted a few of the staff members whom they encountered along the way. He helped her off with her coat, and she invited him to stay, but he declined, saying she must be tired and would surely want to unpack and rest. He made to leave, but she insisted that he stay a few minutes longer.

"Before you go, Mr. Carson, I have something for you," she said, and she handed him the parcel she'd been carrying.

"For me? Surely not!" he said, accepting the box from her and noting its considerable weight.

"Go on. Open it," she told him.

He did as she requested, setting the package on her table and prying it open gingerly. Inside, he found an assortment of carefully wrapped tableware: various stoneware plates and bowls, some dense flatware, and a few substantial drinking cups and glasses.

"I found them at a second-hand shop in Lytham St Annes. When I saw them, I thought of you," she explained. "You see, I knew a woman once – she lived on a neighboring farm when I was a girl. She had trouble with her hands, same as you. But she always used heavy tableware to eat, and her hands shook much less when she was holding something substantial. I thought these might help you, too."

Mr. Carson simply looked at Mrs. Hughes in wonder.

"I'm sorry to say it's not a complete set – just bits and pieces – but that's the nature of a second-hand shop," she apologized. "They're nothing fancy, but they're sturdy, serviceable items. I know they're not suitable for hosting a dinner party or for serving guests, but I thought you might use them when you're dining alone or when it's just the two of us."

Mr. Carson inhaled deeply before speaking again. "Well, as you know, I don't often host dinner parties or entertain guests besides you, so these will see plenty of use. And of course, every time I use them, even when you're not with me, they'll make me think of you … though I hardly need reminding. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. These – well, these and the trembleuse cups – must be the most thoughtful gifts I've ever received."

"Oh, it's nothing, Mr. Carson," she told him.

"It is _not_ nothing, Mrs. Hughes," he insisted, "and I'm quite touched."

"I'm just pleased that you like them."

"I do. And the sentiment behind the gift means a lot to me. That you should be kind enough think of me, when you're a hundred miles away, taking care of more important matters … " he trailed off.

"I'm _always_ thinking of you, Mr. Carson," she said quietly.

He had no immediate response to that, and so he fumbled a bit before continuing. "Mrs. Hughes, I … I was wondering … You see, Lord Grantham happened to say – when he and Lady Mary called on me yesterday, you see – his lordship mentioned that the family would be away tomorrow evening, visiting the Tewksburys. And I wondered … I hoped … that is, if you're not too busy catching up after being gone … or … too worn out from your travels … I thought, if you're amenable, of course, that we might … erm … well, celebrate our understanding. I don't suppose you might allow me to take you to out to dinner to mark the occasion, would you? I was thinking perhaps the Netherby*."

"Oh! Well! That would be lovely, Mr. Carson. I'd like that very much indeed. What a nice way to embark on our new partnership." And she graced him with her loveliest smile.

As a lovesick grin overtook his face, he released the little air that had remained in his lungs. "Right. I'll make a reservation. Shall I come and collect you at about six, then?"

"Perfect," she agreed. "I'll be waiting eagerly."

"Well, then. I should be off." He gathered up the box containing his gift and turned to leave. "Until tomorrow, Mrs. Hughes."

"I look forward to it, Mr. Carson."

 **A/N * The Netherby is the restaurant where Anna and Mr. Bates had dinner in Season 4 Episode 6. In case you don't remember, they went out to eat – on a sort of date, to spend some time together, I guess – after her attack. The maître d' refused to seat them, claiming he had no reservation under the name "Bates." But Lady Grantham, who happened to be hosting some function there, had words with the snooty maître d' and put things right. The place seems to be swankier than the Grantham Arms or the Dog and Duck, and I think Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes's celebration is a special occasion that demands a fancy joint. We'll hear more about the restaurant and their date in the next chapter. Special thanks to evitamockingbird for helping me track down the name of the place.**

 **In the previous chapter, I forgot to mention my take on Becky and Nellie. I know that a lot of fans imagine that Becky is in some sort of institution or facility, maybe a group home, and that's certainly possible. But I think that if Becky's mother was able to care for her at home (meaning that whatever Becky's particular condition was, she probably didn't require specialized expert medical care), then it's possible that someone else like Nellie could look after Becky in a private home, and it's also reasonable that Mrs. Hughes (the** _ **younger**_ **Mrs. Hughes, Elsie) could tend to Becky herself if she didn't have to work at Downton. So that's my line of thinking, in case anyone's interested. I mean no offense to anyone who pictures Becky in a special establishment; that's certainly possible and maybe even likely. But I think this is also a reasonable possibility.**

 **I know that nothing very exciting happened in this chapter; I'm not completely satisfied with it, but we need to move on. But events will move more quickly in the next one, I promise. I can't promise when the next update will be ready, but I don't expect it to take nearly as long as this one did. Please review if you're able; every single comment is precious to me. Thanks in advance.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Thanks so much for the warm response to the last chapter (and for not giving up on me during the long periods between postings)!**

 **I said last time that I hoped it wouldn't be too long between updates, but my life has taken a pretty major, completely unexpected turn. It's a** _ **good**_ **turn, but it means I have been and will continue to be very busy. So I'm sorry that haven't had and won't have as much time or energy to write, but I'll keep trying my best because I still do enjoy it, especially the part where I get to interact with all of you.**

 _Still September 1925 … the day after the previous chapter_

"Good evening, sir, madam. How may I help you?" asked the maître d'hôtel at the Netherby.

"Good evening. We have a reservation for two, under the name Carson," Mr. Carson told him.

"Ah, yes, of course," replied their host after consulting his list. "Your table is ready. Right this way, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Carson."

Mr. Carson's mouth fell open and his eyes bulged, and Mrs. Hughes blushed and chuckled lightly. Luckily, the maître d'hôtel had already turned away to lead them towards their table and couldn't see their discomfort.

Mr. Carson, still stunned, couldn't respond, and Mrs. Hughes said, "No, I'm not … You see, we're not … " Somehow, she couldn't quite bring herself to utter the name "Mrs. Carson" or the word "married," even for the purpose of _denying_ that she was either. She shook her head and said, "Never mind." The man wasn't paying attention and didn't care anyway.

They followed him to a table in the corner, and he pulled out Mrs. Hughes's chair for her. "There you are, Mrs. Carson," he said.

"Erm, thank you, sir, but my name is Mrs. Hughes," she corrected him quietly as she sat down.

"We're not married," explained Mr. Carson, taking his own seat. "Mrs. Hughes is my friend and my … business associate."

"Ahhhhhh. Yes, I see. Of course. I understand now," said the maître d'hôtel with a knowing smirk, as if understanding had just dawned on him. "When you made the booking, you requested a _quiet_ table … _out of the way_. You wish to be _discreet_. Say no more."

"What?! No! We're not doing anything scandalous! I simply wanted some privacy!" blustered Mr. Carson, trying, with questionable success, to moderate the volume of his voice.

"Yes, of course. I'm terribly sorry. I do apologize," said their host – with no sign whatsoever of any actual contrition. "Your waiter will be along presently. I wish you a pleasant meal."

"Thank you. That will be all," grunted Mr. Carson as if he were dismissing his most junior hall boy.

Mrs. Hughes nodded and forced a tight smile as the man scurried off.

Mr. Carson let out a substantial sigh. "Well! That was mortifying!"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Carson. You must see the humor in it," said Mrs. Hughes, trying to calm her flustered companion.

But Mr. Carson was still in a huff. "Must I? I'm not sure what's more embarrassing – his mistaking us for a married couple or his thinking that we're married to _other people_ and sneaking about! Good Lord, I shudder to think what mischief he imagines we could possibly be getting up to at our ages!"

She grinned, raised her eyebrows, and gave him a sidelong glance. "You don't think people our ages get up to mischief?"

"Mrs. Hughes!" he exclaimed. But her teasing had calmed him sufficiently, and there was a matching levity to his next words. "Certainly not! Everyone who is old enough to know better behaves with the utmost decorum," he added, puffing himself up with affected pomposity. "Or so I choose to believe, and please don't try to convince me otherwise. I may be a man of little imagination, but I prefer not think about the alternative!"

She laughed, and so did he, and the atmosphere became comfortable again.

Their waiter arrived, greeted them, and gave them their menus. Mr. Carson ordered a bottle of champagne, and the waiter left them to themselves.

Once they were alone again, Mr. Carson attempted clarify something. "Mrs. Hughes, I don't want you to misunderstand. I had no nefarious motive when I requested a table that would afford us some privacy. My only concern is that I don't wish the entire restaurant to bear witness to my infirmity later should my hands betray me when I'm trying to eat or drink."

Mrs. Hughes regarded him sympathetically and reached across the table to caress his hand soothingly. "Mr. Carson, you must know that I would never suspect you of anything devious."

He smiled gratefully. "Good. I'm glad."

"And I can assure you that no one will notice anything amiss." She looked around at the other patrons. "The other patrons will take no notice of two boring old boobies sitting quietly and eating their dinner." He simply smiled at her and squeezed her hand, apparently reassured.

She retracted her hand in order to hold her menu while considering the choices. He also perused the items on offer. They spent a few moments discussing what they would order, and once decided, they lapsed into silence.

Mrs. Hughes looked about the room at the other patrons. She felt slightly out of place. Most of those dining were of a higher station than she and Mr. Carson were. She wondered whether she were appropriately dressed. She'd agonized earlier over what she should wear and ultimately had simply chosen the most appropriate dress she could find in her closet – the dress she'd worn to the servants' ball for the last three years. It was decidedly less ornate and less expensive than what the other women present were wearing, but it was nice enough that she didn't look _too_ terribly conspicuous. She'd also arranged her hair in a looser, softer style and applied some extra color to her lips and cheeks. Mr. Carson, of course, wore his usual gray suit and blended in easily with the other men, most of whom were similarly attired, but Mrs. Hughes worried that she might not quite meet the mark in their current setting.

Mr. Carson interrupted her thoughts when he spoke. "Mrs. Hughes, may I say … if you would permit me … Well, I hope it's not too forward, and I don't wish to make you uncomfortable, but … you look especially lovely this evening. Erm … I mean … That's not to say that you don't _always_ look lovely, because you do. _Of course_ you do. Only tonight … Oh, dear. My intention was to compliment you, but I've gone and made a mess of it. I'm afraid I'm not very good at this sort of thing." He wrung his hands.

Mrs. Hughes blushed and smiled. "Not at all, Mr. Carson. Thank you. I'm flattered. In fact, I was just wondering whether I … well, whether I 'fit in' here, so to speak, whether I look out of place. I feel rather plain, and I've been worried that people might be staring."

"I can assure you, Mrs. Hughes, that you do more than simply 'fit in,'" he told her. "If anyone is staring, it's only because you're the loveliest woman in the room." He paused for a moment, looking away, then added, so quietly that she almost didn't hear it, "In _any_ room, _anywhere_."

She looked down at the table nervously but couldn't hide the small, happy curl of her lips. "Oh, my. Mr. Carson, I … I don't quite know what to say to that."

"I'm sorry if I've been too bold or offended you," he apologized, his voice full of concern.

"Heavens, no! I'm not offended in the least. Only … I suppose I'm not used to such praise," she explained.

"In that case, I'm sorry I haven't said so sooner or more often, but … you should know that you're _very_ pretty. I've always thought so."

And at that, she smiled widely. "Well! If you're going to talk like that, then I should tell you that you're very handsome."

"What?! No!" he cried, his face turning bright red. "Mrs. Hughes, I didn't say what I said so that you would feel you had to return the compliment. That was _not_ my intention."

"I know that, Mr. Carson. You're not a vain man. But it's true. You look very fine – tonight … and always."

He drew in a breath sharply and released it slowly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he said softly.

A charged silence prevailed for a moment before a distraction presented itself.

"And now that we've agreed we both look very smart, here comes our waiter," said Mrs. Hughes, casting her eyes in the direction of the young man headed their way with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

Once the waiter had taken their meal orders, poured their champagne, and left them alone again, Mr. Carson offered a toast.

"To our new partnership," he said, raising his glass carefully and managing not to spill any champagne despite some trembling.

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hughes, returning his salute.

They sipped their champagne, waited for their food to arrive, and talked of various subjects.

"I should tell you that I've spoken to her ladyship about my leaving," Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson at one point during the conversation.

"Have you indeed?" he asked, surprised – and _pleased_ – that she'd acted so quickly. "I'm sure she'll be disappointed to lose you."

"That's exactly what she said, yes," Mrs. Hughes told him. "I was touched, and I don't mind saying so. She was very kind. She even offered me a cottage on the grounds, but I explained to her that I've already arranged for my living accommodations. And then she insisted on a small sum of money instead."

"That was generous of her," Mr. Carson commented. "But I'm not surprised."

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Hughes. "Quite generous but not surprising. I'd like to offer some of the money to Nellie, though I suspect she'll refuse it. And in that case, I'd like to use it to help you get your house on Brouncker Road set up for business."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hughes, but I can't accept. I suggest instead that you put it into a trust for Becky."

"But Mr. Carson, I'd like to feel I'm contributing towards our new venture."

"And so you _are_ ," he pointed out. "I couldn't proceed without you. Nor would I want to."

Their polite disagreement was interrupted by the arrival of their food, and they agreed to revisit the discussion on another occasion; nothing needed to be settled immediately anyway.

They chatted companionably throughout the meal, but it was over all too quickly. Mr. Carson had been concerned that he might embarrass himself and Mrs. Hughes if he spilled or dropped something because of his shaking hands, but his tremors were mercifully mild, and he passed the evening without incident. Eager to be alone with her, he suggested they have wine and dessert at his cottage instead of the restaurant, and Mrs. Hughes agreed.

A short time later, they found themselves in Mr. Carson's small kitchen, Mrs. Hughes pouring the wine and Mr. Carson arranging on two plates the sweets he'd procured earlier at the village bakery. The glasses and plates were some of the very items that she had given him the previous day.

"Would you like to sit here at the table or perhaps on the settee in the sitting room?" asked Mr. Carson. "They're only finger pastries, so I daresay we can manage with only the tea table in the other room if you like. It might be more comfortable." His main reason for suggesting the sofa was that he simply wanted to be closer to Mrs. Hughes.

"That would be lovely," she said, smiling.

She carried the wine glasses; he carried the plates with the sweets; and they arranged themselves cozily on the settee next to each other.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mr. Carson. It's been quite lovely," offered Mrs. Hughes as she nibbled on a dainty pastry.

"Thank _you_ for accompanying me. The pleasure has been entirely mine," he told her while sipping his wine from a sturdy, heavy glass that hardly shook at all in his hand.

They spoke little as they finished their wine and sweets, but the atmosphere, which had been building all evening, was heavy with something unspoken but keenly felt.

Finally, Mrs. Hughes set down her empty glass on the tea table, next to her plate, and rested her hands on her knees. "I suppose I should be getting back now. I'll just help you with the glasses and plates first." And she rose from her seat.

"Yes, it _is_ growing late, unfortunately, though I'm loath to see this evening end," Mr. Carson admitted as he, too, stood. "But you needn't help with the washing up. I can manage two glasses and two plates, I hope."

"Nonsense. I insist," she declared as she carried her plate and glass to the kitchen. He could do nothing but follow with his own plate and glass.

She turned on the water, took some soap and a dishcloth, and began to wash. He took a towel and dried the items as she handed them to him, and they made short work of it. As the last of the water drained and she wrung out the wet cloth, he ran the towel lovingly over the plate in his hands.

"Mrs. Hughes, thank you again for these gifts. I can't begin to express what they mean to me … how precious they are," said Mr. Carson.

"You're very welcome, Mr. Carson," said Mrs. Hughes. "I'm glad you like them. And I hope they'll be useful."

"They already have been, as you've seen."

He finished drying the plate and set it aside on the counter, then turned to offer her the towel to dry her hands. But as he stared down into her eyes and she looked up at him, he changed his mind. Instead of letting go of the towel to give it to her, he wrapped it around her wet hands and dried them slowly, thoroughly – first one and then the other. When he was finished, he set the towel down but continued to hold her hands in his. He shifted his gaze from their hands to her face, and he found her studying him expectantly.

Over the past months, the urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her had grown stronger each time he'd been with her, but never before had he felt it as keenly as he did now; it was nearly overwhelming. _Nearly_. Somehow, he managed to resist, but tears formed in his eyes, and he turned abruptly away. He rested his hands heavily on the counter and stared out the kitchen window into the darkness, almost panting in frustration. She moved behind him and gently settled one hand on his shoulder and the other in the middle of his back.

"What is it, Mr. Carson? What's wrong?" she asked, leaning her head against his back and rubbing softly with one hand.

"It's getting harder and harder," he murmured in a strained voice.

"What is?"

"Being with you, being _near_ you … but not being able to … " He trailed off and paused for an instant, and in that instant, he decided to tell her everything. "I wanted to marry you. I was going to propose, you know."

Mrs. Hughes gasped and drew away from him, staggering a bit. "But – but I don't understand," she stammered. "Why didn't you, then? What stopped you?"

Mr. Carson turned to face her. "This," he said plainly, holding up his shaking hands.

"What?!" she asked in disbelief.

"I wanted it so badly. I'd even convinced myself that you might accept me. I'd finally gathered up the courage and was ready to lay bare my heart and hope for the best. And then it was all damned to hell when the shaking set in. Now it can never be," he explained with ragged breath and tear-stained cheeks.

"And how does the shaking change anything?" she wanted to know, reaching up with both hands to wipe his tears and caress his cheeks.

"It's not fair to you," he insisted. "You'd be stuck caring for a doddering old fool."

"What if I _love_ that 'doddering old fool'?" she demanded, tears in her own eyes. "And what if I _want_ to be stuck with him? Don't I _already_ care for him?"

He settled his hands gently on her hips, breathing harshly. "You do, and this doddering old fool loves you more than he can say. But as we stand right now, you can walk away at any time. When you tire of me, as you surely will … when you've had enough … you can leave me to fend for myself, and you won't be tied down."

She fixed him with a piercing stare. "Mr. Carson, I'm _never_ going to leave you. _Never._ Married or not. It's _you_ who are stuck with _me_ , I'm afraid. And if I have my choice, I would much prefer to care for you as your wife, rather than simply as your friend. I could care for you much more easily if we lived in the same place, and I think we'd both be much happier together. So you'd better go ahead and save us both the trouble and ask me now."

"But are you sure? Can you really love me as I am now? Shaking and all?" Mr. Carson marveled at the way this was unraveling. Up until a few moments ago, he would never have believed that the evening would play out this way. But here, now, he held his beloved in his arms, and they were on the verge of something wonderful.

Mrs. Hughes moved her hands to his chest, took a slow, deep breath, and spoke deliberately. "Mr. Carson, _ask_."

A thought poked its way through his love-drunk haze, and he extricated himself from the embrace. "Wait right here, Mrs. Hughes. Just a moment," he said, rushing off to his bedroom and leaving an exasperated Mrs. Hughes in his wake. He returned mere seconds later, with a folder tucked under his arm. Taking her hand, he invited her to follow him to his parlor, where they both sat on the sofa.

Once they were situated comfortably, he handed her the folder. "Open it, please."

"But we were in the middle of something rather important, Mr. Carson. I can't imagine what can be inside here that's more crucial than the matter we were discussing," she argued, her voice laced with just a tinge of annoyance.

"Trust me, Mrs. Hughes. Please," he implored. "It _is_ crucial, and it _does involve_ the matter we were discussing."

"All right, then," she agreed, opening the folder and looking inside. Her brow furrowed. "They're the papers for your house. But my name is here, too."

"Yes. When you told me about Becky, I bought the house and registered it in both of our names," he informed her. "I intended to propose, and even if you refused me, I still wanted you to benefit from it."

"But Mr. Carson, I … "

"I also bought this," he said, drawing a box from his pocket and opening it to reveal a gold ring etched with simple but elegant design. "But once the trembling began, I gave up hope of ever being able to offer it to you. Since then, it has sat in the drawer of my night table, reminding me constantly – _painfully_ – of what might have been. Until now. Now it fills me with hope for what might still be … if you'll have me." With some difficulty, he removed the ring from the box and held it with unsteady fingers. He slid from the settee and lowered himself to one knee, holding the ring out to Mrs. Hughes. "Will you marry me, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson. Of course I will," she said, sniffling and wiping at the tears in her eyes.

Mr. Carson attempted to slide the ring onto her finger, but his uncooperative fingers couldn't accomplish the task. So he simply placed it in her palm and apologized, grinning sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid you'll have to do that."

Mrs. Hughes quickly slipped the ring into place and encouraged him to sit next to her once again. As soon as he was seated next to her again, she took his hands in hers, and they simply sat beaming at each other for a few precious moments. Now the urge to kiss her _was_ overpowering, and he saw no need even to _try_ to resist. He leaned closer, still holding her hands, and pressed his lips lightly to hers. She returned the kiss, moving her lips delicately against his. After their tender first kiss, they drew apart to gaze fondly at each other. Mr. Carson then stood and pulled Mrs. Hughes up with him. He slid his arms around her middle, and she looped her arms around his neck. Their subsequent kisses were less restrained and more protracted than the first, and the two spent many happy minutes embracing and caressing, whispering sweet endearments. Eventually, however, the mantel clock chimed, reminding them that the hour was growing late, and the two reluctantly agreed that it was time for Mr. Carson to walk Mrs. Hughes back to the abbey.

Their leisurely moonlight stroll was interrupted frequently when they stopped to kiss or embrace along the way. But finally, they found themselves at the back door in the servants' courtyard, where they parted with one last kiss and the promise of a happy future together.

 **A/N And chelsie fan heaves a huge sigh of relief.**

 **Originally, I had intended to keep them apart for a bit longer, but as the story developed, I didn't think it was reasonable or plausible. The old boobies are destined to be together, and unless you're Fellowes, it can't be reasonably dragged out for too long.**

 **Shout-out and apology to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey/csota. She requested something in this chapter that I couldn't manage quite the way she described it, but what did happen here ended up being sort of** _ **close**_ **to what she wanted. I hope it suits.**

 **This chapter is probably riddled with typos because I'm posting in a hurry. As soon as I can, I'll go back and check more closely and fix any mistakes, but in the meantime, please let me know if you find anything amiss.**

 **There will probably one more chapter or an epilogue to wrap things up.**

 **Thank you so much for sticking with me and continuing to read and review. Your kindness keeps me writing.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Thank you so much for all your support throughout the posting of this story. You've been unbelievably kind and supportive, and I can't adequately express my gratitude.**

 **Special thanks to royal-lover, who proposed the original prompt on tumblr.**

 **Here's the last chapter. Enjoy!**

 _December 24, 1925_

As the threesome entered the lobby of the Netherby hotel, where they'd chosen to have their Christmas Eve luncheon, Becky looked around in wonder. The already opulent atrium was decorated even more lavishly for Christmas. "Elsie! This is so fancy! I've never seen anything like it! And we're to dine here?!" she exclaimed happily. Then she paused for a moment, seemingly pondering something, before asking, "Are we rich?"

Elsie laughed, and so did Charles. "No, Becky, love, we're not rich," said Elsie. "But we've just enough money to be able to afford a nice little treat now and then, for a special occasion."

"And my two favorite girls certainly _do_ deserve a treat! And this certainly _is_ a special occasion!" Charles added.

Exchanging smiles, nods, and holiday greetings with everyone they encountered, they made their way to the coatroom and left their coats with the attendant, after which time they proceeded across the lobby and down the corridor to the hotel's restaurant, with Charles proudly holding one Hughes sister on each arm.

"Have I told you both how lovely you look this afternoon?" asked Charles as they walked. "All the other men will be jealous of me."

Becky giggled. "Charles, you're silly."

"Maybe I am," he said, "but you're still very pretty."

Elsie just smiled.

A few steps later, they arrived at the restaurant's entrance, and Becky looked around again in awe at her glittering surroundings. Charles spoke before the maître d'hôtel' could greet them. Wasting no time on an exchange of niceties, Charles announced, "We've a reservation for three under the name 'Carson.'"

"Of course. I remember you from when you were last here. Welcome back, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes. I see you've brought a friend with you this afternoon," said their host, with a false cordiality.

For the sake of courtesy, Elsie introduced Becky to the man. "More than a friend, in fact. This is my sister, Miss Hughes."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Becky said politely.

"And you as well, Miss Hughes," he responded. "Now, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to your table."

He led them to the same table Charles and Elsie had occupied on their previous visit; only this time the table boasted a third chair. Their host pulled out Becky's chair for her while Charles helped Elsie to be seated.

"Your restaurant is very pretty," Becky told the maître d'hôtel as he pushed her chair back in. "I like the decorations."

"Thank you ma'am," he replied. While it might have been unusual for a restaurant patron to compliment the maître d'hôtel on the establishment's holiday décor, he covered smoothly. "Well, then," he said as a waiter approached the table. "If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you in Gerald's capable hands. I wish you a pleasant meal, Miss Hughes. And a Happy Christmas to you all." He looked around the table, acknowledging the others with a nod. "Mr. Carson. Mrs. Hughes."

"Thank you. But actually … it's Mrs. Carson now," Elsie corrected him, wiggling her ring finger ever so slightly to draw his attention to her wedding band.

"Oh, indeed?! May I offer my congratulations to you both?" the man said, managing to sound _almost_ suitably sincere and enthusiastic.

Charles covered Elsie's hand with his own, and they smiled blissfully at each other, neither caring in the least whether their host's words actually _were_ sincere or enthusiastic.

The young waiter – Gerald, as his superior had called him – arrived, and the maître d'hôtel departed, with Becky calling an exuberant "Happy Christmas!" after him.

Charles ordered a bottle of doux champagne, thinking its sweeter taste would appeal more to Becky's inexperienced palate than would the acquired taste of any of the drier varieties he might otherwise have chosen for Elsie and himself, and Gerald left the trio to study their menus. Elsie helped Becky choose an entrée, and when Gerald returned to pour the champagne, the hungry diners ordered their meals.

"To my new family," offered Charles, holding up his glass with a slightly wobbly hand.

"To _our_ new family," Elsie amended, lifting her own flute.

"And to Christmas!" added Becky, raising her glass a little too energetically and splashing a few drops in the process.

Charles and Elsie laughed happily at seeing Becky's glee. Her joy was infectious.

The Carson-Hughes family enjoyed their celebratory luncheon and then paid a visit to the house on Brouncker Road. (On discovering that the Carsons owned another, bigger house in addition to their cottage, Becky had been convinced that they really _were_ rich.) Once Charles and Elsie had become engaged, they'd abandoned their previous plan to have Elsie live at the house and manage it. Instead, they'd hired one of Downton's former housemaids, Jane Moorsum, a widowed mother, to run the house on Brouncker Road as a women's boarding house. Renovations had just been completed, and the first boarders would take up residence after the start of the new year. Currently, the only occupants were Jane, who had only recently moved in and was getting the place in order, and her son Freddie, who was home from university on holiday. Jane and Freddie were happy to see their visitors and to meet Becky, and Becky was happy to meet some new friends and to see the "other house."

After a brief visit with the Moorsums, the happy little family headed home to their cottage, and soon they found themselves ensconced happily in their parlor in front of a roaring fire. Because they'd eaten a large meal earlier, they opted to have a light dinner, consisting of some nibbly bits and sweets, which they ate while seated on the sofa and chairs in the sitting room rather than at the kitchen table. They'd been invited to the abbey for dinner, but they'd politely declined, explaining that they wanted to spend their first Christmas Eve together as a family quietly in their own home. They'd promised, however, to visit the big house to see everyone on Christmas Day.

After some biscuits and a cup of hot chocolate, Becky was tired, and Elsie helped her get settled into bed while Charles cleared away the dishes and stoked the fire. Becky had been with Elsie and Charles for only a few days, but already, she liked her new home, her new bedroom, and her new family. She felt comfortable with her sister and new brother-in-law, to whom she'd taken an immediate liking as soon as she'd met him.

Once she'd tucked Becky in, Elsie returned to find Charles waiting for her on the settee, and she sat down and nestled herself cozily against him.

"All sorted, then?" he asked as he pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.

"Yes. She's pretty excited about tomorrow, but I think she's tired enough that she'll fall asleep easily. Maybe she already has, by now," Elsie told him.

"Good. I'm glad." He paused for a moment to consider. "Do you think she's happy here?" he wanted to know.

" _Of course_ she is, you daft man! Can't you tell? You make us _both_ very happy."

"Well, I'm pleased to hear it. I'm happy, too."

They smiled at each other and sat in silence for a time, simply enjoying each other's warm presence. After a few minutes, Charles spoke seriously.

"I want to tell you something, and it might sound strange at first, but hear me out, please," he began.

"All right," Elsie agreed, looking up at him curiously.

He held out his hands, which trembled in front of him. "Last year, when the trembling set in, I looked at it as a curse, something terrible, from which no good could come. But I was wrong. It's certainly a burden, an unpleasant difficulty … but in a way, it's been a blessing. And _plenty_ of good has come from it. You see, while I hate to think that looking after me makes more work for you, it's served to show me the depth of your love for me. I never needed more proof, of course; you've always cared for me. But sometimes I'm amazed at _how much_ you love me. It humbles me to know that despite my infirmity, you've chosen to devote your life to me, and for that, I'm grateful."

"Oh, my darling! I could say the same of you. I never dreamed a man could love me as much as you do. But the way you care for me – and for Becky … " Elsie trailed off with tears in her eyes. She paused for a moment before continuing. "When I was young, my mother told me something I've never forgotten. I once asked her why God would allow Becky to be born the way she was – to allow her – to allow _us_ – to have such a difficult life. And my mother explained to me that when bad things happen, they're not punishments or burdens. They're simply opportunities for people to show great love for each other. If life never had any trials, then no one would ever have to make a sacrifice for anyone else. But true love is sacrificial."

"Your mother was a wise woman. And so are you." He leaned over to kiss her cheek.

As they cuddled against one another, Elsie dozed off, and Charles sat happily holding her and watching her. He took her hand and lifted it to kiss her fingers. As he pondered thoughts of blessings and burdens, he studied his wife's wedding ring and recalled the previous Christmas Eve, when he held the same ring in his shaky hands with a heavy heart, lamenting that he would never be able to offer it to her. At that time, he hadn't wanted to burden her, and he hadn't believed that Elsie might love him enough to accept him with all his faults _and_ his physical infirmity. But then she'd proven him wrong, gladly taking up his burden as her own, and he'd grown to love her ever more with each passing day.

He was also grateful that he was able to help Elsie with Becky. Becky herself was blessing better than he could have imagined: in addition to gaining a wife, he'd gained a sister-in-law, as well – one whom he adored beyond measure, even having known her for such a short time. But supporting Becky financially and looking after her daily needs certainly were burdens, and Charles felt privileged to be able ease Elsie's hardships – _and_ to allow her the chance to live with her sister after years of separation. Fortunately, Becky was mostly self-sufficient: she could feed, dress, and wash herself, and she didn't require constant attention or supervision. But she couldn't be left alone for long periods, and she certainly couldn't hold gainful employment or support herself financially. Still, Charles knew he had the better end of the bargain: caring for Becky and Elsie with money and practical needs was a small price to pay in exchange for the honor and privilege of caring for them with the love in his heart. A year prior, in his lonely room at Downton Abbey, Charles had wondered why the benevolent God in whom he believed would allow him to be so afflicted and to feel such sorrow. But on _this_ night, this _wonderful_ night, with his beloved sister-in-law slumbering happily in her bed and his beloved wife asleep in his arms, Charles Carson felt no affliction or sorrow. He drifted off to sleep himself, feeling only gratitude, happiness, and love.

 **A/N Once again, I thank you all for your tremendous support from the beginning of this story all the way to the end. I'm so grateful for your kindness. Please leave one last review to let me know what you think of this last chapter and of the story as a whole.**


End file.
